


in nomine

by electrumqueen



Series: the lines of inquiry [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angels, Coming of Age, Demons, Gen, Infidelity, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/pseuds/electrumqueen
Summary: “Hey,” Mikey says. He's careful to keep it nonchalant, careful not to look at Dylan, careful to keep his eyes on the sun. “Promise you won't come back different.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> content: self-harm imagery, nothing especially graphic; extensive vaguely-catholic ruminations; references to real family members.  
> further, spoilery notes at the end, along with some background reading about ball hockey in lorne park, mississauga. two introductory articles for easy access: [intro to lorne park](https://www.thestar.com/sports/hockey/2014/01/07/stromes_mcleods_could_be_hockeys_next_sutters_staals.html); [mamas strome + mcleod](http://www.hockeycanada.ca/en-ca/News/2017-wjc-mcleod-and-strome-families-share-successes-together).
> 
> this is an INCREDIBLY me story. in my defense, mikey mcleod went out there and then nathan bastian put a picture of [this](https://twitter.com/14Nbast/status/833532659309608960) on the internet, so. thank u to twitter for putting up w two months of sikenbot rts; thanks to e for the endless worldbuilding and cheery support and love for dylan and mikey and this DRAMATIC WORLD that KEEPS COMING TRUE; thanks to r and j for the cheerleading and ENTHUSIASM and SUPPORTIVE CONCERNS; k for the reality checks + dedication to the platonic + willingness to be real w me abt the worldbuild. you're all super wonderful + i'd be lost w/o you.

****-

 

>   _Saint Michael Archangel,_  
>  _defend us in battle,_  
>  _be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil;_  
>  _may God rebuke him, we humbly pray;_  
>  _and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,_  
>  _by the power of God, cast into hell_  
>  _Satan and all the evil spirits_  
>  _who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls._
> 
> _Amen._

-

 

When Mikey McLeod was seven years old, he killed an angel.

This sounds pretty bad, when you hear it. But you have to remember, Mikey grew up in Lorne Park; when Mikey was seven, demons were already starting to cluster around them, asking about when they'd like to make their deals.

The angel asked for it. It's important to remember that. Not that he'll ever forget.

She looked at him with enormous gold eyes; she didn't look dangerous. She just looked like a sad, bleeding woman with six wings. She said, “Here, please,” and curled his fingers around the knife she handed him, and she bared her neck, and he pushed in, deep.

Angels have gold blood, you know. It is hot, and burns forever if it touches you, because an angel’s death is a great and brilliant heresy.

Mikey knows. The whole length of his left forearm still hurts. The patterns of the blood have coalesced into shapes that, if you squint, look like prayers.

 

-

 

The summer before Dylan goes to Erie, he and Mikey make a pact. Dylan has been taken second overall in the OHL draft and will play with Connor McDavid, who has become the poster child for Ontario boys with demons; Mikey is a year away from making it to the CHL. Connor McDavid is proof that that the system works. Connor McDavid was brilliant as a child, and now as a teenager makes grown men weep.

Mikey and Dylan are not proof that the system works. None of Mikey's brothers have demons and they are tearing up the GTHL. None of the Stromes have demons, either, and Ryan went fourth overall in the NHL draft.

It's not very GTA, but it is very Strome-McLeod, which is the more important place to be. Maybe they could both be better but they're doing all right, and Mikey would like to see Mitch Marner’s shitty dad try to take Mikey’s mom in a fight because he would lose, just the way Dylan kicked Mitch's butt the last time they played against each other.

(This may not, technically, have been what happened.

Mikey is loyal, though. He’ll tell everyone it is.)

For one minute, when Mikey was six, his big brother Matt got real sour and asked their mom why he wasn't allowed to even try. It was the maddest Mikey had ever seen his mom; now, thinking about it, maybe she just looked afraid.

Mikey is sitting out back, behind the house, on the rink. It's thawed out for summer and nobody's cut the grass in a bit, so if Dylan breathes in too hard he'll sneeze.

Dylan stretches out his skinny knees next to Mikey's and knocks their shoulders together.

Inside their brothers are hollering; something crashes, loud and expensive. Mikey hopes it's not the Xbox. The last time the Xbox broke, Mom and Dad held out for two months and made them work for a replacement. It was hell.

“Hey,” Mikey says. He's careful to keep it nonchalant, careful not to look at Dylan, careful to keep his eyes on the sun. “Promise you won't come back different.”

“You think I'm gonna go to Erie, PA, and make a deal?” Dylan's head whips around, too fast. He’s sharper than people give him credit for, with his skating the way it is. “My mom would kill me, Cloudsy.”

“Obviously,” Mikey says, though he'd be lying if he said the thought of it didn't keep him up at night. “Just -  remember what we say about them, okay? All the guys who do it. Don't get soft on me out there.”

“I don't know,” Dylan says. “Without you I'll probably just have to cuddle up to McDavid, ask if I can hang with his demon. You think it's nice?”

“Fuck off,” Mikey says, turning to look at him. He traces the lines of Dylan's face with his eyes: Dylan's stupid mouth, stupid attempt at a moustache, terrible skin, greasy hair. “Promise, okay?”

“Jeez,” Dylan says. But he's smiling, just a little, and it is the smile he has saved for Mikey, the one where all his teeth show and his eyes crinkle up at the edges, so Mikey figures it will be okay. “You're like a girl. So insecure.”

Mikey punches him in the shoulder and Dylan goes for his ribs, motherfucker never fights fair; they end up scuffling in the yard like little kids, like Dylan isn't going far, far away, like Mikey isn't going to miss him.

“I promise,” Dylan says, after. He is flat on his back on the grass, hair sweaty and dark with blades of it.

Mikey heaves himself up just long enough to drape himself across Dylan's belly. He almost reaches for Dylan's hand, but then he doesn't.

“You and me, Cloudsy. I'm never not gonna be on your team.”

“You better not,” Mikey threatens, setting the points of his elbows on the spaces between Dylan's ribs. “I’d tell my mom. I’d tell your mom.”

“You wouldn't,” Dylan says, ruffling Mikey's hair. “You like me too much.”

It’s true; if there's anything their moms take more seriously than that hard no on demons, it is sticking together. Once, Mikey and Dylan left the little Matt and Ryan at a kids’ movie because they couldn't get into PG-13, and Mikey honestly thought they were both gonna get yanked out of hockey for good. That would have sucked. Mikey is not good at school, and Dylan is even worse.

“Okay,” Mikey says. “I wouldn't. Probably. Don't give me a reason to find out, I don't care how good McDavid's hockey is.”

“I won't,” Dylan says. He's grinning, but he’s also serious.

Dylan spits on his palm, so Mikey spits on his, and they shake. It's not binding, not like all the other deals guys in their neighbourhood are making, but it's important all the same.

 

-

 

This is what happened when Mikey was seven: he was riding his bike in the ravine out back, the one his mom had told him not to go near alone. Mikey was rarely alone, in this neighbourhood of Stromes and McLeods, so he had disregarded this advice in the way he dismissed all the things Mom said that didn’t apply to him, like slowing down, and caring about math.

Last night it had rained, and the Leafs had played the Phoenix Coyotes at home. These facts had coincided, because normally Mikey would have been playing shinny in the yard. However, last night they had been rained out, so he and his brothers and Dylan's brothers had all succumbed to Dylan's hockey-geek whining to watch every game and take notes, instead of playing it like a normal person; they had done it with less complaining than normal, even, and only Older Ryan had called Dylan a nerd, and that only once.

The track was slippery, now, and a little wet, but Mikey had been cooped up inside too long and needed some air and to not be near his brothers. He pedalled furiously, though leaves caught in his hair and dirt smudged across his cheek and he was sure, any minute, his mother would burst out of the trees and demand he go home right away and take a shower.

He should have gone home. He didn't really even like to go out this far himself.

But he had heard something singing. The sound of it was bright and clear and lovely, though it was so sad tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

He went to it.

The woman shut her mouth and looked at him. She didn't look like anything, just like a woman. Maybe like his favourite babysitter, a little, in the shape of her high cheekbones and flat nose. Except that she was golden -  and not like how people talked about white girls who had gone to the beach - she looked like she had been dipped in a thin layer of gold, light enough that you could see every fine line, every muscle movement.

She was crying, he realized, getting closer. That was what the sound had been; not joy, not music. Tears.

She looked up. Her eyes were strange, he saw; they had no pupils, gold all the way through. In trying to avoid making contact with the strangeness of them, his eyes slipped to her wings.

There were six of them, stacked three on either side on her back. They spread out behind her, so wide he didn't know how he had missed them, except maybe that you always missed big obvious things like that, because you were trying to get clever. The two lower ones on her right side were barely hanging on. They had been almost-severed and attached to her by the barest threads, gushing golden ichor.

“Oh, no,” Mikey said. “I'm gonna get my mom. She has bandaids.”

( _Don't be stupid. She needs an ambulance._ )

“Please,” the angel said. She was bleeding everywhere, he realized, now that he was looking - from her throat, where three jagged lines drew like claw marks; from her arms, all along, like she had tried to pull herself free and been held fast; from her torso, where the loose fabric of her shirt was coloured mostly the gold of her blood. “You mustn’t let them find me.”

She had a clear, soft voice. She sounded like a song. He would have followed her anywhere.

“I promise,” he said. “Who are they?”

She closed her eyes and opened them again, as though it cost her enormous energy to do it. “Bad things,” she said. “Things that come in the night. Hunters.”

“Demons,” he said, because that was what she meant.

“You are so young,” she said.

He smiled at her, because he thought she might want to see it, because she looked sad and when he smiled at his mom, when she was sad, she looked less sad. “You’re in Mississauga, ma’am,” he said. “Half my brother’s team are trying to make deals, and he's nine and a half.”

She shook her head, looking like his mom did when she was pissed off, when she’d grit out, _these shortsighted -_ and then many things Mikey wasn’t allowed to repeat. “Not you.”

“No,” Mikey said. “My mom would never let me. And I don’t want to. It’s stupid and scary.”

“No,” said the angel. “You’re precious. Your soul is precious. It’s worth more than what they could ever even dream of giving you. God made you.”

“Thanks,” Mikey said. “What happened to you? Where should I take you? You’re an angel, right? You have wings. Can you fly?”

She laughed. It turned, partway through, into an awful hacking cough, thick with blood that fell, golden, from her lips. Mikey’s shoes smoked slightly. “I forgot about children,” she said.

Mikey crossed his arms over his chest. “Are they coming for you? I’ll tell my mom. She can fix it, I promise.” There was nothing Mikey’s mom couldn’t fix, and even on the off chance that there was, Dylan’s mom down the street could handle it.

Mikey’s mom had fixed Sam Tancredi in first grade after he called Mikey too small for basketball, and now Sam brought Mikey cookies sometimes. Mikey had not actually seen his mom go fist to fist with a demon ever, but he was fairly certain that she would, as she did all things, absolutely scare the bejeezus out of it.

“I believe you,” said the angel, smiling softly, wincing only very slightly. “Unfortunately, Michael, it might be a little late for that, now.”

“How do you know my name?”

( _Stupid. She’s an angel._ )

“Michael is one of our names,” she said. “Like you’re one of ours. You know who you’re named for? Our Father’s sword hand. The leader of His army. Do you know how to be brave, Michael?”

 _It’s Mikey, actually_ , he thought.

“I’m dying,” she said. “It’s not a matter of if but when. They found me and hurt me and I fled, but it’s too late.”

Mikey closed his eyes and opened them again and when he did he was crying. He didn’t mean to be, but he was; it ripped out of him in sobbing gulps.

She watched him calmly, with her big gold eyes.

“I can,” Mikey said, wiping his hand across his face. “There are more of you, right? We can drive to church, or something. Somewhere they pray.”

She smiled at him and shifted sideways, and then something on her side made an awful tearing sound, ichor gasping from the wound in a hot gold rush. She looked awful, destroyed. “They’ll find me,” she said. “And if I am still alive they will devour me, and it will make them strong. Strong enough to hurt my brothers and sisters, and yours, too.”

“I only have brothers,” Mikey said.

He saw, then, the knife in her hand. It, too, was gold.

“I can’t do it myself,” she said, softly. “It is against every law. Do you understand what I am asking of you? I’m sorry, that you are so young, but you are bright and pure of heart.”

( _No. No, no._ )

“Oh,” Mikey said. He knelt and she pressed the hilt of the blade into his hand, with her bloody fingers curling his own around it.

“Michael,” she said. “Once, to the heart. And then a second time, to the throat. Do you understand?”

Mikey swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

 

-

 

Dylan comes back at Christmas wearing an Otters sweatshirt with 97 on the shoulder, and demands that everyone watch World Juniors, because Davo will be there.

“ _Davo,_ ” says Mikey, with derision. Dylan has been doing this a lot on the phone, but he had hoped it was a phase, like the mullet.

“Davo,” Dylan repeats. “He’s not so bad, Mikes.”

“He probably isn’t,” Mikey says. “He’s probably a nice fucking guy. Bet his demon isn’t.”

“Mikey,” Dylan says. Like a warning.

“Ugh,” Mikey says. “I’m gonna go make hot chocolate.” _Don’t follow me._

“Bailey's in mine,” says Dylan imperiously. Like everything is fine and they’re normal. Like he’s all grown up, used to Erie, PA, and flat Bud Light.

Mikey’s Ryan elbows him in the ribs. “Be nice,” he says. “Dylan’s never talked like that about anyone.”

 _Connor McDavid has everything_  Mikey thinks. _He doesn’t get to have Dylan, too._

“I don’t care,” Mikey mutters. “He doesn’t get to go away and forget-”

“Forget what?” Ryan asks. He is fucking annoying like that. He doesn’t let shit go.

“They made our lives _hell_ ,” Mikey says, tightly. He jams his hands into his pockets.

“He’s not like that,” Dylan says. He looks at Mikey firmly, fondly. “He’s a good person. I didn’t think he would be, but he is. Fucking weird, but - a good person.”

“Great,” Mikey says. “He’s gonna have his soul eaten, but that’s fine, as long as you want to suck his _dick_ -”

“What the fuck,” say Dylan and Ryan in unison.

Matty Strome lifts his head from Ryan’s lap. “Whoa, Mikey.” He opens his eyes startlingly wide, which is not normal for Matty.

“Fuck all of you,” Mikey says. He turns on his heel and storms out of the Strome living room and up the stairs. There is no door to slam. He wishes there was something that would make a loud and indignant noise, in keeping with Mikey's sentiments.

Fucking open concept living spaces.

 

“Hey,” Dylan says, pushing the door open with his hip. He is holding two mugs and looks less like an asshole than usual.

“Go away,” Mikey says. He fixes his eyes on the wall next to Dylan’s head. The Thornton poster is peeling at the edges.

“If you actually wanted me to go away you wouldn’t be in my bedroom,” Dylan says, reasonably.

“I hate you,” Mikey says. “You promised, Dylan.”

“I still love you most,” Dylan says.

“That is a lie,” Mikey says. “That is straight up no abridged grade-A bullshit, Dylan William Strome. I know what you look like when you have a new favourite.” He means it to be funny. He does not make it there.

“Mikes,” Dylan says. He sits down next to Mikey, so their shoulders bump together. “Oh, Mikey, did you miss me?”

“Of course I missed you,” Mikey snaps. He thinks he might have tears pricking at the corners of his eyes which would just be motherfucking typical. Dylan is supposed to be the crier, not Mikey. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in us,” Dylan says. He looks at Mikey, fierce and brave. “You understand that, right? We’re good, you and me and our brothers. We don’t need that shit.”

Mikey swallows. His stomach hurts, like it's been hurting since Dylan got drafted and it hit him, really hard, that Dylan was going to go away. “What if _Davo_ asked you to?”

“I told him no,” Dylan says, kindly, firmly. “I’ll tell him no every time.”

“Are you sure?” Mikey hates that his voice shakes. He hates that he keeps having this dream where he makes a deal and eclipses Connor McDavid so thoroughly it is as though McDavid was never even born.

“Hey,” Dylan says. “What’s this about, Mikes?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mikey says, staring down into his hot chocolate, which swirls clumpily because Dylan never mixes the cocoa in right, and when you drink it you get little clumps of dry powder that stick to your teeth, and Dylan always says it’s not his fault, it’s yours. Mikey has not given the right answer. There is a right answer, and the right answer is, _demon shit, stupid_. “I just fucking miss you, all right.”

“I miss you too,” Dylan says, and turns his face a little and looks at Mikey, long and thoughtful. “Mikes, I miss you a fucking _truckload_ , you get that, right?”

Mikey's stomach lurches. Dylan, Dylan, Dylan. He feels sick and twisted up and tired.

And he wants -

Mikey wants a lot of things.

Dylan looks at him, all eyelash and thin-lipped mouth, hair curling into his forehead, sticking up around his ears. It's been so long.

Mikey swallows, unhappily. It feels like: tension, coiling up inside of him. Like a dam, straining not to burst. “Not like I miss you,” he says, and lurches forward and slams their mouths together with an inglorious clack of teeth.

It is not a particularly good kiss, he would say. Not that he has a lot to compare it to, just Jessica from homeroom, and Sarah and Sara from those parties. But.

It is a kiss. It is Mikey’s mouth, and Dylan’s mouth, and Dylan’s _tongue_ and Dylan, right there, right _here_ , warm and present.

It's _Dylan._

Dylan pulls back, but he doesn’t bolt. He settles his hand on Mikey’s thigh and takes both their hot chocolate and puts it on his nightstand. He has to shove a little pile of issues of the Hockey News out of the way.

Mikey watches him do it, and traces one finger over his mouth, until he catches himself doing it, and drops his hands to his sides.

Finally, Dylan turns back. He has these clear eyes. Mikey missed them so, so much. “I got hurt,” he says, softly. “Do you remember? I was concussed and my mom almost killed coach.”

“What does that have to do with anything? We play hockey.” Mikey does remember. He was scared, too.

“Connor’s demon got mad at me,” Dylan says. “So it slowed me down, a little much, pushed me into the boards just in time for me to get hit. Failed concussion protocol right after. Don’t tell my mom, she’ll flip worse than she did already.”

“I won’t,” Mikey says. His heart hammers in his chest. He can’t look at Dylan for more than a second; has to keep looking down, and then back again.

He thinks about what Dylan’s mom would say about that. Fuck. She’d flip shit. She’d pull him home right the fuck now.

He almost wants to.

But it's _hockey._

This is what they love.

“He looked at me,” Dylan says. “Connor did. Like I didn’t mean anything, like, fuck. I thought we were friends. He had these hollow fucking eyes.”

Mikey thinks about what Dylan’s mom always says about demons, which is: _they’re selfish, and those boys who make those deals are just the same; they don’t know what they’re getting into._ To make a deal with a demon you must be willing to give up everything else; you must be willing to give up your own heart. There’s not a lot of room, there, for you to care about anybody else.  
Demon boys are selfish, because demons are selfish. Dylan isn’t, even though he would probably be better off if he was.

Mikey doesn’t say that. There’s no point, not with Dylan looking like this.

Dylan waits for Mikey. His breathing is soft, steady. When Mikey is ready to look up, their eyes meet, and Dylan says, “We’re on the same team, Mikey. Even when we’re not actually on the same team.” And he tangles his hand in Mikey’s and kisses him back.

 

-

 

“They’re all around,” the angel said. “I can smell them.”

“Gross,” Mikey said. He looked up, but he couldn’t see anything; just the sky, cloudy and grey, with a bit of the sun peeking through. He couldn't smell anything, either. Just the remnants of the rain.

She nodded. “Like sulfur,” she said. “Like places where the earth opens up.”

He tipped his bike against a nearby tree and sat down next to her, stretching his legs out in the mud. His jeans would be dirty but they were always dirty; Mikey attracted dirt, his mom always said, sighing. “Are you scared?”

“Pretty much always,” she said. “Are you?”

He looked at her, and considered it. “You’re an angel,” he decided, after a moment. As hurt as she was, this was true; she had wings, and looked like light. “You won’t let anything happen to me.”

“I won’t,” she agreed, and started, very slightly, to glow. Sunlight fell into her hair, despite the gloom of the day; like she had picked up all the light there was to be found, and magnified it. “Michael, I promise. No matter what, I’ll keep you safe.”

“My mom doesn’t want me dealing with demons,” Mikey said. “She says it’s dangerous and not worth it.”

“She’s right,” said the angel. “Come here, okay?”

“I’m not supposed to,” he said.

“Michael,” she said. Her voice rang like the song he'd thought it was, like a command. “Do you know how to be brave?”

He heaved himself upright and went to her, hovering in front of her for a moment, unsure if he ought to kneel.

“Your mother is raising a warrior,” she said. She reached up and traced her fingers along his face, over the scars hockey had left, the little bump above his eyebrow, from yesterday’s fall, before the rain started. “Is she doing it on purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Mikey said. You could never really tell, was what Mikey’s dad said about Mikey’s mom and about Trish Strome. _Follow em into the mouth of a lion_ , dad would say. _Wouldn’t ask them what the plan was, though_. _They’d get spooked._

“She named you Michael,” said the angel, thoughtfully. There was blood on her mouth, now that he was close enough to look. “She knew you would bear arms.”

“I really just want to play hockey,” Mikey said, starting to fidget. Something in his chest pulled him to her, but something else -  the smarter part of him, maybe, the part that sounded like Mom -  said _go home, Mikey, this isn't your business._

“You can be more,” said the angel. Her hand closed over his shoulder and she spoke-

It hurt, oh man, it _hurt_. Like someone was digging into his bones with a knife, but it was all of them, every one, at the same time.

( _Ow, ow, ow.)_

“That sucked,” he said. He tried not to cry from it, but tears pricked at the corners of his eyes anyway.

“Now you will be invincible,” said the angel, with the firmness of a promise, an oath. “Now no demon will touch you, ever. That is a legacy I can manage.”

( _Thank you._ )

He looked up at the sky. It was dark with cloud.

Something in his bones ached. As though there was a deep wrongness in the world. As though he had not known for a long time and now was awakened.

As though scales had fallen from his eyes, he would later think. He did not think that now.

 

-

 

Mikey drops to fourth overall accidentally-on-purpose so Mississauga can draft him, and Dylan comes home. Neither of these events is a surprise, but they are both very welcome.

Mikey is looking forward to getting to kiss Dylan again, and to hold his hand. The summer is very long. Mikey is going to make it last.

 

Dylan brings Connor McDavid home.

This is a surprise.

It is not welcome.

“Hey, Mikes,” Dylan says. He is standing in Mikey’s fucking doorway wearing a fucking sheepish expression, and Connor McDavid is half a step behind him wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a fucking sunburn is crawling across the bridge of his nose.

Dylan reaches for Mikey’s elbow.

“You can’t bring that into my house,” Mikey says, stepping back. “You can’t bring that into _your_ house.”

“We have JT 91 over, sometimes,” Dylan says, defensive.

Connor McDavid shifts from foot to foot. His hands are in his pockets. He looks younger than he does on the ice. Out there he is in charge of everything, and everyone knows it. Now, in Mikey’s driveway, he just looks freckled and too long for his body, and very, very uncomfortable.

Good.

“It’s just like JT 91,” Mikey snaps. John Tavares is _well established_ and a _nice guy_ and also his demon isn’t _fucking terrifying_ , it’s just something you have to deal with because Ryan went and did that.

“I’m Connor,” says Connor McDavid. Mikey can’t see the demon, even if he squints, but that’s normal. You can’t see demons until they want you to, and that’s usually when you’re in deep shit.

“Cool,” Mikey says, flatly. “I’m Michael. Like the archangel.”

“What the fuck,” Dylan hisses. He steps on Mikey’s foot.

McDavid really doesn’t look like anything. Just, like, a boy. A boy with a long shadow, but Mikey doesn’t look at those. They make his eyes hurt.

McDavid’s hair is falling into his eyes. His t-shirt says _Otters_ on it, just like Dylan’s.

“He’s just here to play,” Dylan says. “Or like, watch us play, whatever, he's not allowed to do anything that might get him hurt. I wanted you guys to meet.”

“Oh, really,” Mikey says.

Dylan darts forward and grabs Mikey’s hand, before he can step out of the way again. “Stop being such an asshole,” he says, squeezing tight. “It doesn’t - we agreed it wouldn’t do anything, here.”

“How was the salt line?” Mikey asks, tight and furious, yanking his hand back.

“Okay,” McDavid says, thinning his mouth. “Stromer, McLeod and I are gonna use your driveway for a little one-on-one. Got it?”

“We’re _what_ ,” Mikey says, as Dylan says, “You’re _what?_ ”

McDavid tilts his head to one side. His eyes are very dark. “Michael, right? Are you chickenshit?”

 _You have an unfair advantage,_ Mikey thinks. Bitter like always.  

But he hasn’t been afraid since he was seven years old. So.

“Fuck it,” he says. “Let’s go. I’m down.” He’s gonna get his ass kicked. Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last. Maybe he’ll get to tell his kids a story about Connor fucking McDavid, before his demon ate everything he was and he was just an ambling shell.

Dylan looks tight around the eyes. He reaches for Connor, and then for Mikey again.

Mikey sighs, and lets Dylan hold onto him, this time.

“I’ll go easy on your boyfriend,” McDavid says, sly and a little mean. “Don’t worry, Stromer. He’ll be back in good enough shape for whatever you want to do with him.”

Mikey and Dylan look at each other.

 _Not in my mother’s house_ , Mikey thinks. Mikey’s mother’s house is soft and full of flowers. Mikey’s mother is soft and kind, and has rosemary and rue tucked behind her ears. Mikey’s house has salt lines at the thresholds, and horseshoes and iron on the lintels, and _there are no demons in it_.

When Mikey was a kid, all the hockey parents they knew were reading up on demons. There’s a section at Canadian Tire, you just have to go a little past the hockey sticks. Pretty much nobody makes a deal under the age of ten, not unless you’re fucking crazy (Connor McDavid) or a total asshole (Mitch Marner), but everyone is making plans; by the time you’re thirteen you have a deal, if you’re gonna make it to the show.

Not Mikey’s mom, though. And not Dylan’s, either, and that’s why they are friends.

Mikey’s mom and Dylan’s mom looked in the face of demons and things larger than them, and they learned about herbs. They don’t do all that much, not like demons do, but they do something.

It’s better, Mikey’s mom always says, than standing around complaining.

And they all know it’s better than making a deal.

Mikey’s house smells like rosemary, and salt, and rue. Like baking bread, and library books, and iron, everywhere. It is safe.

Nothing dark can tread past Mikey’s threshold. Only that which is pure of heart, and good.

Connor McDavid, everyone knows, is not that.

“Mikey,” Dylan says, firmly.

“All right,” Mikey says. “Sticks are in the garage, let’s go.”

The driveway looks smaller than it usually does. It is, objectively, a long driveway. There is plenty of room in it.

Doesn’t feel like it so much, right now.

Dylan grabs McDavid by the shoulder, and leans in to whisper in his ear. His hair curls around his ears and his eyelashes are long, brushing against McDavid's cheek. Mikey hates seeing that there is a person Dylan whispers to like that; he hates especially that this person is Connor McDavid.

“Just you,” Dylan is saying, soft like he doesn’t want Mikey to hear, but fuck that, Mikey has great ears. “All right? Not here, no-”

“Yeah,” McDavid says, ruffling Dylan’s hair with one hand, easy, leaning on his stick with the other. “Don’t worry about it. Just humans in this one.”

Mikey looks at Dylan; Dylan looks at Mikey. The sun is in Mikey’s eyes but he doesn’t squint. He thought he and Dylan were going to like, make out, maybe play a little two-on-two with Ryan and Matt, either generation. Instead Connor McDavid is in Mikey’s driveway, and you’re not supposed to feel demons but McDavid feels _wrong_. There is something prickling at the insides of Mikey’s wrists, along the line of his back.

“Let’s go,” Mikey says, again. He’s gonna get his ass kicked, no question. “Let’s see what you can do without the devil on your shoulder.”

McDavid grins, slow and easy. Not quite malevolent, but with an edge. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay, sure. Let’s find out.”

The answer, it turns out, is quite a fucking lot.

Mikey eats gravel after fifteen seconds, trying to keep up with McDavid; he’s not as fast in sneakers as he is in skates, but he’s still fucking fast, and Mikey’s ankles cannot fucking keep up. Mikey has always been quick but McDavid is in a different league; he does not even try to go head to head.

(Technically, Mikey has not yet played an OHL game.)

McDavid scores while Mikey is picking himself up out of the dirt and shaking the rocks out of the imprints in his knees.

“Fuck you,” Mikey says, revelling in the snap of blood in his teeth. “That the best you’ve got?”

McDavid grins right back. He doesn’t look like anything other than himself. Just a sixteen-year-old with bad skin and fucked up hair and the weight of Dylan’s love upon him, which is its own enormous gift. “Not even close.”

McDavid scores on him three more times, Dylan watching from the front steps with his chin in his hands. It’s not even close to fair; Mikey’s getting beat the fuck up.

 _Michael_ , he thinks to himself. _Get it together._ He slams into the ground _again_ , diving for the ball as McDavid pulls himself out of the way just in time.

Michael was an archangel. He slayed a dragon. There are all these paintings of this like, bored-looking dude with huge lips and flowy hair and a fucking _sword_. Mikey knows, because they’re fucking everywhere. And sometimes he googles.

Mikey picks himself up off the ground. McDavid smirks again, circles back; tosses him the ball.

Mikey takes a breath and lunges forward, ball on his stick. Speed to speed, maybe there’s no chance, but McDavid won’t see it coming, and-

Mikey’s feet smack into the pavement, jarring all the way up his legs. Saint Michael, baby, he’s got _wheels._ He dekes around McDavid, pulls his stick back - top shelf, blocker side-

 

“Mikes!” Dylan yells.

The ball slams into the net. Fuck yeah.

McDavid scores on him again twice more. Mikey skins his knee _again_ , and trips McDavid up three times. All’s fair in Lorne Park ball hockey.

The third time, McDavid gets a fist in the back of Mikey’s t-shirt and yanks him down, too.

“Watch your heads!” Dylan yells. “If either of you get broken I am in _so much shit!_ ”

Mikey attempts to punch McDavid but succeeds in getting a fistful of tarseal; McDavid gets his knee into Mikey’s ribs and then _pulls his hair_ and then they are just rolling around on the concrete, along and over and into the grass.

McDavid rolls them over, straddling Mikey with his knees on Mikey’s chest and his hands on Mikey’s wrists. Leans down, face so close Mikey thinks, he should be able to see the demon; but he can’t, just McDavid’s acne marching along the line of his jaw. He has very long eyelashes. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to him,” he says.

Mikey’s ribs hurt and his knees are screaming and there’s grass prickling against the back of his neck. “What?”

“That’s what I came to say,” McDavid says. “I get why you don’t trust me. I get where you come from. But I promise.”

His voice is very, very soft. Dylan is too far away to hear.

Mikey keeps his own voice soft, too. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you know what people look like when they love Dylan Strome,” Connor McDavid says. He leans back, lightens his grip on Mikey’s wrists and looks at him, considering. “Because I didn’t know what I was supposed to be until I met him. And you know he can do that.”

Something shifts in his face. Mikey feels it, like something dark and black rising, like bile in Mikey's throat. With great effort, McDavid reigns it back.

“Okay,” Mikey says, softly. “Okay. If you let anything-” He puts steel into his voice. Puts in gold, the colour he dreamed about when he was seven years old.

“I know,” McDavid says. He does not blink; he does not waver. “I won’t.”

 

“His demon sucks,” Dylan says, later, after McDavid has gone home and it is just Mikey and Dylan crammed together in Mikey’s bed, hiding from whatever enormous calamity the littler Matt and Ryan have inflicted upon the garage. “Like, it’s really powerful. And it really loves him. And it _really_ sucks.”

“Duh,” Mikey says. “All demons suck.” He tucks his head under Dylan’s chin; Dylan rests his hand on Mikey’s stomach, pushing up the hem of his shirt to draw little circles on Mikey’s belly. Feels like a ward, Mikey thinks; they’re their mothers’ children.

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “They all do, but I don’t think I really got it, until Davo.” He kisses Mikey’s hair, softly. “I just. I want you to be ready, all right? To have them on your team. They aren’t as bad as you think they are.”

“That’s scarier than you think it is,” Mikey says.

“Nope,” Dylan says. “Terrifies me more every time I think about it.” He shakes his head. “I have this dream where it kills everyone. Or, Connor does. There's all this blood on him.” He trails off, eyes going distant.

“Jesus,” Mikey says.

“I don't want to talk about that,” Dylan says. He tightens his fingers on Mikey’s skin.

Mikey turns his face and kisses the side of Dylan’s neck. It is getting easier to do that, now that Dylan is here all the time. He tastes like salt and smells like himself. “Hey,” he says. “McDavid said something- do you talk about me? In Erie?”

“I never shut up about you,” Dylan says, easing up, very slightly. “I mean, mostly you’re an aside when I’m talking about how great your Ryan is, but sometimes you come up. By accident.”

“Boyfriend,” Mikey says. He bites at Dylan’s throat gently, grazes his teeth along the line of it. “That just came outta nowhere? If that’s how you’re talking about Ryan, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. He sits up a little, blinks. “Is that what you wanna talk about?”

“We can go back to your weird demon shit if you want,” Mikey says. “Because you totally blindsided me with a demon in my _house_ and you seem to really fucking like ‘em now, so-”

“Boyfriend,” Dylan says, breathing out. His eyelashes flutter. “Fucking Connor.”

Mikey levers himself up onto his elbows. His legs are still tangled in Dylan’s; neither of them are pulling away. “Yeah?”

Dylan bites his lip. Looks down, and then back at Mikey, and holds. “I think you’re pretty cute,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but. Davo’s pretty observant, so he has. Maybe I talk about you sometimes. Maybe I miss you a lot. Maybe you’re the only person who gets me.”

“You’re not especially complicated,” Mikey says. “Hate to break it to you.”

Dylan grins, very slightly. “Neither are you, sorry, bud.”

Mikey pinches his hip.

“Ow!” They’re staring at each other, unmoving. Mikey traces the shape of Dylan’s mouth with his eyes. “I miss you all the time.”

“I don’t miss you at all,” Mikey says. He keeps his voice as steady as he can. That means: not that steady.

“I wanted you to meet my best friend,” Dylan says. “That’s what that was. Didn’t really want you to get in a fight, but I guess I should have expected it.”

“Wasn’t a real fight,” Mikey says. “Nobody got hurt.”

“Your lip is all fucked,” Dylan says, reaching out to touch it. “Just so you know.”

“You saying I’m not pretty anymore?”

“You’re always pretty,” Dylan says.

Mikey closes his eyes, opens them again. The air feels weird, like there’s something in it. Like a storm is coming, or has just ended. “Shit happens,” he says. “We’re gonna be okay. Don’t - I’m not gonna be his best friend or anything, but. If you had to pick a demon boy I guess I can live with it. If he hurts you- but otherwise, like, I’ll handle it.”

“So,” Dylan says. “You wanna go steady?”

“What the fuck,” Mikey says.

“I don’t know where that came from,” Dylan says. “My billets have this like, shitty cable package, we get all these old movies - I don’t fucking know what I’m -” He’s working himself up into a full-scale Dylan Strome thought process. Mikey can see the wheels in his head spinning, practically. Steam’s gonna come out of his ears any second now.

Mikey can take care of that.

“Hey,” Mikey says, leaning forward. “Wanna be my boyfriend?”

The wheels grind to a halt. Dylan sputters, and then blinks, and then opens his mouth and shuts it again. “Okay,” he says, very fast, and then: “I guess. You know. I could. If you want.”

“I want,” Mikey says, and grins at Dylan, and lets Dylan cut him off with a kiss.

 

Three days later, Mikey and Dylan and Connor McDavid have breakfast. Dylan agrees that neutral territory is better, so they drive to the middle of fucking nowhere, aka a shitty diner halfway between Mississauga and Newmarket.

Mikey gets pancakes. Dylan gets eggs and extra bacon. Dylan doesn’t even like extra bacon; Mikey doesn’t know why he ordered it until McDavid reaches across the table and stabs a strip with his fork.

Mikey doesn’t _mind_. It’s not a big deal. It just feels like if anyone was going to have first dibs on Dylan’s bacon it ought to be him?

“Yo,” Dylan says. “I think you were supposed to let my boyfriend do that.” He drops his hand to Mikey’s knee and grins, really wide.

McDavid blinks, bacon halfway to his mouth. And then he grins back. “Jesus,” he says. “How long you been trying to get that into the conversation, bud?”

“Like 20 minutes,” Dylan says. “It’s harder than it looks.”

“You’re dumber than you look,” McDavid says, amicably. “And you look pretty fucking stupid, so.”

Dylan rolls his eyes and steals one of McDavid’s strawberries. “Ignore Davo,” he tells Mikey. “He was raised by demons, no idea how to be polite in company.”

Something happens. A change in the light, in the air. Mikey shivers and reaches for Dylan’s hand, closing his fingers over the top of Dylan’s.

McDavid’s face changes. It’s like a stormcloud passes over it; all the lines smooth out, and something different settles in.

Dylan turns his palm over and squeezes Mikey's hand, fingers wrapping tight around his wrist. “It's okay,” he says. “It won't hurt you.”

 _Easy for you to say,_ Mikey thinks.

Mikey has played against demons before, he's no stranger to what this looks like. Black eyes, strange feelings; on the ice it means they're jumping up a level, better put your wings on, McLeod.

This isn't the ice, though. This is a diner off the 407, just outside Vaughan.

Mikey shouldn't feel unnerved. There's rosemary in his pocket, juniper in Dylan's collar, rue in both their buttonholes. It doesn't mean all that much but it means enough.

It's still - it's fucking weird. Looking at McDavid with black eyes, with his neck tilted at an angle human necks don't turn. Mikey's mom and Dylan's mom spent so long fighting, so none of their sons would turn out like this. And now Connor McDavid is sitting across the table from Mikey, and he is not himself.

McDavid's face is smooth, free of emotion. Like a media mask, only different.

“Mikes,” Dylan says, softly. There is no fear in him, and that is unnerving, too. He is so calm, like he is used to this. Like a year has been enough time to make it normal, for something alien to wear your best friend’s skin. “This is 99. 99, this is my boyfriend, Mikey.”

“99,” Mikey echoes. He reaches for his orange juice with the hand that isn't in Dylan's, traces his fingers around the rim of the glass for something to do. He can feel Dylan's pulse against him. Everything is okay.

McDavid smiles. Or, the demon smiles. Or, 99 smiles. Using McDavid's face.

“Fuck,” Mikey says. His hand twitches and his glass flies sideways. OJ, everywhere.

“Sorry,” Dylan tells the demon. “But dude, you gotta give me some warning. I could have given him a heads up or something at least.”

“Sorry,” the demon says. Parroting. It turns its head - McDavid's head - and cracks its neck loudly. “Michael,” it says, considering. “Dylan speaks highly of you.”

 _You better fucking not be talking about me with demons,_ Mikey thinks shrilly. He attempts to convey this by squeezing Dylan's hand very hard.

Dylan squeezes back: _chill out, Mikes. It's okay._

It doesn't feel fucking okay. It feels like a fucking nightmare. It feels like Mikey is stuck in a fucking diner with a fucking demon, and fucking Dylan would fucking let it eat him.

Mikey takes a breath. “He says you're okay, for a demon.” This is a peace offering. Or as close as Mikey gets to one. “I guess you're pretty good at what you do.”

“I try,” says the demon. It smiles at him with McDavid's lips, but where McDavid's smile is loose and sweet, the demon’s is sharp and thin. Completely different. “You're very fast.”

“People tell me that,” Mikey says. He takes a breath. “If you hurt Dylan I’m gonna fuck you up, understand? Never again.”

“All right,” says the demon. “I believe you.” It is smiling, benign. Serene, like a still pool, like the pond before it freezes. “I have no intention of doing that. It might surprise you, but I like him, too.”

“We’re okay,” Dylan says, reaching across the table, over Mikey’s spilled orange juice and their half-eaten breakfasts, to tap his knuckles against the knuckles of the thing wearing Connor McDavid like a game day suit. “It looks after Connor, and Connor’s my boy. Isn’t that right?”

 _A balance_ , Mikey thinks. Dylan is a middle child like Mikey. They know how to keep the peace. “Okay,” he says. His mouth feels numb. He picks up a napkin and mops at the spill.

“Can we have Davo back now?” Dylan asks. “We’re trying to have breakfast.”

“Just wanted to introduce myself,” the demon says mildly. “He’s a special kid, your boy. Treat him right.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mikey says.

Connor McDavid’s head nods, once, and then-

“Oh, motherfucker,” says McDavid, shaking his floppy hair, back and forth. “Did it eat the bacon? Of course it ate the bacon.”

“Jackass,” Dylan agrees, putting another rasher onto McDavid’s plate. He looks around, and then very swiftly presses a kiss to Mikey’s cheek. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“You fucking owe me,” Mikey mutters. He digs his fingernails into Dylan’s wrist, and holds on.

 

-

 

There was rosemary in Mikey’s shirt pocket. He held it out to the angel. “My mom says it helps,” he said.

“Helps what?” she asked, but she took it and rolled it between her palms and breathed it in. “Thank you.”

He stretched out his legs. “We don’t have demons in my house,” he said, because this was what his mother said, all the time. “So we have to come up with our own shortcuts.”

“What kinds of shortcuts?” asked the angel. The knife gleamed in her hands.

Mikey didn't want to kill her.

( _Buy time, Mikey. There has to be something else to do.)_

 

Mikey didn’t really remember a time before the Stromes. He assumed one had to have existed, but it was blurry, in his mind. Things just made sense: McLeods and Stromes in Lorne Park, playing hockey and soccer and whatever made-up thing they could throw together with a ball this weekend. This was the year everything had gotten serious for Ryan Strome, who was in Atom; this was when all the parents around them had started looking up demons. Not for right now, of course, but in the next two or three years; once Bantam came around.

Mikey’s mom had never been into demons, and neither had Mikey’s dad, and they had bonded with Trish and Chris over their lack of willingness to make the kinds of deals everyone else’s parents had made - for ice time, for speed, for drive. All their boys were on their own out there, in a way few children of Lorne Park ever were.

Matt was the littlest Strome. He and Ryan, Mikey’s little brother, fell in with one another automatically. They didn't know about what it meant that they were friends, and Mikey, who was just starting to look around the edges of that awareness, was glad for it. Matt was funny and quiet, mostly, and played up the side of the street when Dylan and his older brother Ryan made him.

Ryan asked Mikey why he and Matt were friends, once, and Mikey didn't know what to say. Didn't want to say, because everyone hates our moms. Thankfully Matt, his Matt, was there to say it for him; Matt McLeod had grown up looking  out for his little brothers in the world of Mississauga minor hockey, and took Matt Strome as just another one to add to the pile.

Matt McLeod grinned and ruffled Ryan's hair and said, "because, dumbass, he lives around the corner and nobody else wants to deal with the way you smell." Close enough.

So that was Matt Strome: attached to Ryan at the hip, and able to devour an entire half-dish of Mikey's mom's lasagna all on his own, not that anyone would ever let him.

The oldest Strome was Ryan. Ryan was eleven and ahead of all of them, and this was causing problems because it was now time for Ryan's parents to start figuring out which demon he would deal with, if in fact he would make a deal. Trish and Chris had been adamant through all their boys' childhoods that they would make no deals, not at seven or at seventeen, and especially not at the socially acceptable age of thirteen.

Ryan was funny and mean, older than all of them so he would boss them around. Matt - Mikey's Matt - took it in good humour; he took most things in good humour. He and Ryan had a sort of understanding, even though Matt was two years younger. They were both eldest brothers in families that did not deal with demons and so they had things in common.

Once, Ryan had almost punched a kid for Mikey. It hadn't been a serious thing, just a parking lot disagreement after a summer tournament, but Ryan had waded in to pull the other kid off Mikey before Mikey even really knew what was happening, and then had solemnly ruffled Mikey's hair and told him to find Ryan if he had any more trouble, all right?

Dylan was the middle brother. Mikey understood Dylan better than he understood anyone, not because they were the same age - Dylan was a year older - or because they played the same position - they did, but Mikey was a skater and Dylan was resoundingly not - but because they were middle children and their parents smelled like herbs. It wasn't like with their older brothers, whose job it was to protect the younger ones; they didn't have the luxury, though, of pretending everything was all right. It was a strange road to walk and Mikey was glad he had Dylan to walk it with him; glad he had Dylan to pick him up after stupid fights, Dylan to cause significantly more than his fair share of scraps, taunting the demon boys. Dylan, to whose scrapes Mikey tended so neither of their mother’s would see; Dylan, with whom Mikey learned about rosemary and sage and all the things that stung their noses but kept them free of all the demon magic that spun through GTA minor hockey, like a spider’s malevolent web.

 

Mikey had grown up in a world of demons but his mother had kept him safe, and she had given him Dylan and his brothers, so Mikey and his would not grow up alone. He didn't realize how important it was until he sat there, with the angel, with rosemary in his hand.

“You're not like the other children,” the angel said. “Your parents raised you to be pure of heart.”

Mikey used to hate it. Now he lifted his head and reached for the angel carefully, as kindly as he was able. “Yeah,” he said. “They did.”

 

-

 

Mitch Marner played on Dylan’s wing at the U17 in Sydney, so now they are like, friends, or something.

Mikey does not trust it, but apparently Dylan is the kind of person who brings home demons at Christmas, so what the fuck ever.

At least McDavid is busy playing in the WJC. That’s one thing Mikey doesn’t have to deal with.

Mikey likes McDavid fine. He’s fine. He's got a fucking demon in him and if Dylan isn't shit scared of that then who the fuck raised him? But otherwise, like. He's all right. He loves Dylan. That's important.

Mikey is still okay not having McDavid in his house, which is salt and iron and warm, good things. Not McDavid.

Dylan and Mikey are good, now. It’s kind of weird, because, like, they’ve always been each other’s everything, but now there are all these new people, now the world is open and huge, and now Mikey and Dylan is different, too. At first it felt weird but now it just feels right. Like, getting to kiss Dylan is fucking normal.

Not that they do it a lot or in public or anything, but it is like, they have had always secrets for each other, and now there is this. A logical progression.

It’s like, things are good. Dylan’s far, most of the time, but he’s good. Mikey is happy on Sauga even if they’re fucking terrible; they’re getting their shit together. Mikey doesn’t have a Connor McDavid, but he does have Bryson Cianfrone, who got his demon eaten because McDavid broke his hand trying to punch Bryson, so that’s. Something.

The point is: things are good.

Aside from Dylan’s newfound fucking demon fetish, that is. That’s fucking weird. Mikey hates it, and it makes him feel like his skin is wrong, and like _Dylan_ is wrong, but if he says anything about it Dylan gets tight around the eyes. So Mikey doesn’t say anything about it and it just sort of sits at the bottom of his stomach, heavy and fucked up and sour.

 

Dylan brings Marner home over the holidays. Mitch Marner is a London Knight, and he made a demon deal when he was very young. His demon is notoriously unpleasant, even among demon boys; Mikey's boys talk about it in hushed voices, even Daysy, who gave up more than he’ll talk about for exceptional status and so, as a rule, doesn't give any fucks.

They’re all a little more used to it now because of McDavid, but Matt still stares for a minute and Ryan still gracelessly walks out the McLeod front door as soon as Marner walks in.

Mikey has to be nice, because Dylan has asked him to. Mikey is generally not all that good at being nice, but he sets his jaw and tries.

It's easier than he thought it would be.

Marner is like, funny and shit. He’s kind of mean. He’s got like, a pointy little face, and he tells sharp and filthy jokes, and he plays street hockey with them, unlike McDavid, who is too scared of injury to do it very much. Marner gets right up in it even though he's smaller and slighter than most of their guys.

He is very, very good. Even now, he plays fearlessly, with speed, with grace. Mikey doesn’t mean to be caught off-guard but sometimes he is: you can see it, the way the magic is in his movement, the way the potential is just - realized.

It’s not like McDavid. McDavid is electric; McDavid is a gift, McDavid touches the puck, touches a stick, and it’s like - Mikey wouldn’t be like that, even if he sold his soul. He couldn’t. It’s not in him, which sucks, and makes Mikey feel bitter a lot, but is some kind of consolation, at least. That he isn’t missing out on something he could have.

Marner is. Mikey looks at Marner and Mikey knows that if he wanted, he could - that’s something Mikey could be. That’s something Mikey is on the verge of. Marner is so fucking good but his edge is the demon-edge, Mikey can see that, and -

Well, it gets in his teeth, that’s all.

But it’s fine. It’s not something Mikey wants. Mikey made a promise to his mother, and Mikey made a promise to Dylan, and Mikey made a promise to a dying angel when he was seven years old, and more than all of that, Mikey made a promise to himself.

So Marner is Marner, and Mikey is Mikey, and that’s okay.

Has to be.

The point is: Marner’s all right, if Mikey sets his jaw and really fucking believes it, and Mikey is good at telling himself things and making him believe them, so Marner is a good time and Mikey gets along with him.

Dylan likes him so, so much. Dylan liking people makes Mikey feel softer about them. It’s a skill Dylan has: all that love inside of him. He makes you see what he sees, in the boys he’s brought home. Like Marner, with his big eyes and bigger mouth and raucous, loose laugh.

He climbs all over Dylan, all spider monkey arms draped around Dylan’s shoulders, around his neck; clinging to Dylan like Dylan’s safe harbour, an anchor, though Mikey thinks he probably isn’t doing it on purpose, probably just thinks it’s bros.

Mikey doesn’t really care, because, whatever, Dylan likes demon boys now, Mikey guesses people change. Dylan’s a good guy and he likes looking after people, and Marner is someone you can see, if you are looking, needs to be looked after.

Mikey doesn’t have a saviour complex, but like, he doesn’t really mind that Dylan does. Dylan’s a good guy, and it’s good that Marner has someone on his side.

It's hard for him to be in their house though. Either of their houses. Because of all the salt and iron and stuff.

It doesn’t really bother McDavid so much, from what they can tell, but Dylan says it really fucks Marner up. (Fucks his demon up, but that's the d word, you don't need to say it out loud.) So mostly they hang out outside, in the road.

Mikey is glad. He likes Marner fine, but he doesn't want him in his house. Mikey's house is finely calibrated to keep everyone safe.

Mitch Marner is disruptive. You don't need to not like him to know that: it’s just what he does. He shows up, he breaks the game. He’s not like anybody else. He’s magic.

Dylan squeezes Mikey’s hand and says, _thank you_ , under his breath.

 _You owe me,_ Mikey whispers back. It’s okay. They’re a team. They can handle anything; they have their own magic. Mikey has his own armour, in the face of Mitchell Marner and the thing that took his blood and gave him grace, in exchange.

But god, he’s fun to watch. God, he’s fun to play.

Mikey thinks, it would be so much easier, if he weren’t.

 

Matt came home with all these books he read at school. Turns out Canisius College has both a pretty okay D1 hockey team _and_ a really good library section on magical uses for plants. He’s good at plants, better than he is at hockey.

(Everyone always used to say, _maybe you just have to trust the system, Judi. Maybe you should stop holding Matt back._

They didn't think Matt should go NCAA either. They thought he should have made his deal and made everyone regret 6th round, 105th overall, to Barrie; that he should have given something blood, and torn up the O.

Mikey’s mom said, _he is what he is, and his sport is his sport, and he'll go where he wants._

That was the end of that, to any of their faces.)

Mikey's mom coos over the books and makes Mikey and Ryan and Matt Strome read them, which is unfair in Mikey's opinion since none of _them_ signed up for nerd shit. But Mikey guesses _somebody_ needs to look out for Dylan.

 

“You smell like juniper,” Mikey says, leaning against Dylan's shoulder. He hopes it doesn't come out sharp. He doesn't mean it to come out sharp.

He really doesn't mind that Dylan has brought this demon boy home.

Or, he really shouldn't mind.

Mikey likes Sean Day a lot. Daysy has a demon, but he is a good teammate anyway, and funny, and mostly not too creepy at night, if Mikey doesn’t look too closely.

This is the story of Mikey’s life in the OHL.

At least he doesn’t crawl into bed with demons.

“Dylan made me a thing,” Marner says. He tilts his head and looks at Mikey, bright-eyed. Marner is not usually a cautious person, so the restraint with which he speaks, now, is - interesting.

“Your Matt helped,” Dylan says, sheepish. “It’s just supposed to make his demon calmer, you know? Less stressed.”

Marner grins. “It’s like my dad,” he says. “Never fucking shuts up, you know? Just wants to win all the time.”

“Huh,” Mikey says.

“I mean,” Marner says. “I want to win all the time, too. But sometimes I just want five minutes to watch a movie or something, so, Dyl hooked me up.”

“Nerd,” Mikey says.

“Yeah,” Marner says, grinning at him. His mouth really is extraordinarily wide. “So are we gonna play or what?”

 

Marner skins his knee pretty bad. It's not Mikey’s fault, honestly, Mikey just tripped him like normal and Marner went _down_ , and now there is blood everywhere. Mikey thought Marner’s demon was supposed to deal with that shit, it’s weird.

They have to go inside to handle it, because, like, so much blood. Just so much.

“Normally it takes care of that kind of thing,” Marner says, putting his knee up on Dylan’s kitchen table, wincing, while Dylan squints at it and fishes around under the sink for rubbing alcohol.

Mikey sits down across from him. “Sorry,” he says, reluctantly. He doesn’t mean it; he’s not going to do anything to touch the protections his mom has put on her house, he doesn’t care if that makes Mitch Marner’s knees hurt. “That looks gross.”

“It’s okay,” Marner says. “It stings.” He tilts his head to one side, looks at Mikey. “It gets kind of stressed around you, eh?”

Mikey shrugs. “Maybe it can tell,” he says. “We don’t make deals out here.” He scratches the inside of his left wrist; the gold has mostly faded from when he was a kid, but if you squint in the light you can still follow the loops and whorls of the backsplash of the angel’s blood against his skin. “Do you want me to -”

“It’s fine,” Marner says. “In here, it’s pissed off anyway. All your flowers and crap.”

“Hey,” Dylan says. “You don’t wanna sneeze at my flowers, you don’t make your deal.”

“I didn't make it,” Marner says, shrugging, like it's nothing. “My dad made the deal for me. It's an advantage, you know? Bond as early as you can.”

The air gets chilly.

Mikey turns his face, automatically. Eyes to Dylan.

Dylan looks like he's going to be sick. His hands fold together on the edge of the table, knuckles white and still.

“Oh,” Mikey says. His stomach hurts.

Marner laughs. “Honestly,” he says. “It was a great time in minor midget, all the way up to Atom. Nobody could see the ice like I could. It made me like - untouchable, right? Everything was beautiful. Every play, every pass. It was like flying.”

“Right,” Dylan says.

“Sucked when everyone else got em,” Marner says. “But by then I was better, so.”

“Never than me,” Dylan says.

Marner blinks. “You know,” he says. “Tkachuk thought he was gonna do it without one, too.”

Mikey bites down on his lower lip. Copper bursts in his mouth.

“Matty’s demon is nice,” Marner says. “Strong. It likes picking fights, which pisses mine off, but it's okay. Especially since you made me that thing, Dyl.”

“Glad I could help,” Dylan says. He is trying to keep himself light. Mikey can see it. He's trying so hard. 

Mikey rests his chin on his hands and watches Dylan press the bandage down, over Marner’s knee. His fingers shake, a little, but remain mostly steady.

“Hey,” Mikey says. “You ready to go again?”

“Always,” Marner says, bouncing to his feet. “Let’s fucking do it.”

 

Afterwards, Marner goes home and Dylan follows Mikey through his front doorstep, up into his bedroom, like a long and gangly shadow that doesn’t really manage its own pace, and trips over Mikey’s feet when he’s following behind.

“Hey,” Mikey says, sprawling back onto the top of his unmade bed and drawing Dylan down over him, like a large blanket.

Dylan comes, amicably, eagerly, with grace. “Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Mikey says, and then they kiss for a little while, easy, moving against each other with lazy, gentle familiarity. Mikey thinks it is going to go somewhere, but then-

“Connor’s got a boyfriend,” Dylan says, quietly. Murmurs it into Mikey’s hair like a secret. “Promise you won’t tell?”

“Since when have I ever told anyone anything?” Mikey says, drawing a little circle of protection on the inside of Dylan's right bicep. He adds a rune for prosperity, and then one for luck.

“Told me my hair looked okay this morning.”

“White lies don't count, Stromer.”

Dylan makes a little put upon sound, but nuzzles his mouth against the curve of Mikey's neck and then bites his earlobe. “It's Ekblad.”

“Oh shit,” Mikey says. “Like, first overall Ekblad?”

“Like first overall Ekblad,” Dylan says. “Like, super possessed Ekblad.”

“He made his deal young, too, right?”

“Yeah. Not Connor young, but. Pretty young.”

“Fuck,” Mikey says. He rubs his thumb over the cut of Dylan's hip. “Fucking demon boys.”

“I know,” Dylan says. His mouth twists down, Mikey feels it move.

“You keep bringing them home,” Mikey says. “This your new type?”

“I only have one type,” Dylan says. “Blond, blue eyes, too fast for his own good. Smells like rosemary and rue.”

“I didn't know Davo smelled like rosemary.”

Dylan levers himself up, onto his elbows, and peers into Mikey’s face. He’s got these big, round eyes. “Hey,” he says, suddenly serious, like he gets about Joe Thornton or a sage rub on the blade of his stick. “You know that's not how it is, right?”

Mikey shrugs. “Yeah, I do. Just, sometimes - he's Connor McDavid.”

“You’re Michael McLeod,” Dylan says. “He's got a fuckin demon in him, Mikey. I couldn't ever. And even if he didn't, his feet smell _terrible._ ”

Mikey laughs.

“It's you, Mikey,” Dylan says, and his voice softens, and he sounds so, so sweet. “Me and him are nothing like that. I swear.”

“That why you told me about his boyfriend?”

“A little. I don't want you to worry.”

“I wouldn't,” Mikey says. “You're not a coward.”

Dylan kisses down his shoulder, his elbow, the inside of his wrist. His lips are chapped like he has been biting them too much. “No. I'm not magical, but at least I'm brave.”

Mikey doesn't really know what to say about that. “You're special,” he says.

Dylan hums. “Thanks, Mikes,” he says. “You too.”

 

-

 

The angel said, “Michael. It’s time.”

Above them the sky darkened. There was a sound like thunder, and Mikey’s bones, humming from whatever gift the angel had given him, pulsed with sudden, immediate hurt.

“It’s-”

“They’re coming for me,” she said.

“Why?” Mikey asked. “Why do they hate you?” He could feel it in the air, could smell it like you would smell ozone before a rainstorm, or the Strome and McLeod houses just from the step before you let the door open. Hate did not smell like lavender, or like rosemary. There was no sweetness to it.

“They’re wrong,” she said. “You can feel it, can’t you? They’re not how things are supposed to be. A dissonance, the wrong chord.” She reached for him, her thumb flat against his forehead; like a blessing. “Michael, archangel. Sword arm of my father.”

“I-” said Mikey. But they grated at him, too. He felt the wrongness of it, like he had felt the rightness of the ache in his bones, the sharp writing drawn onto the marrow of them.

“You see,” she said. “Look up, brave heart. This is yours to witness.”

He did what she asked, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. “Why?” he asked, again.

“We left your people alone with them,” she said. “I'm so sorry, Michael; we left all of you alone too long, we didn't notice the darkness until it was too late. We’re here now. We’ve come back.”

“I'm scared,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

The clouds thickened. They began to screech, a low malevolent vibration, like a scrape of metal on metal.

( _Hold on tight.)_

Still, he did not look away. He wanted to reach for the angel but he did not; he let his eyes slip from the sky to her beautiful, still, bloody, face.

She closed her eyes, and began to sing.

( _She’s praying, look._ )

Fire came down like a hailstorm, like rain. It whipped around Mikey and the angel. The heat didn't touch Mikey. He looked down at himself; he was glowing, too, from the inside of his very self. Light radiated from his bones, and nothing dark came near him.

She had blessed him.

He did not feel safe, but he was.

The clouds descended. They grew teeth.

 

He watched. He bore witness, as she had asked him to.

He was seven years old. He was not equipped to see this: to see apocalypse, in the shape of this sad-eyed woman with her beautiful wings. It would only sink in years later, the truth, the scope of what he had seen.

As a child, he simply saw: fire.

Now, later, he can pull it apart. Now he can remember that there was screaming, and that for months after he would jolt himself awake, searching for something with which to plug his ears, to make it stop. He was never successful.

 

“This is the last time,” said the angel, looking sick and tired and frail. She had only two wings left, and her skin held together with barely anything like flesh. “When I’m gone, they will leave, too. There will be nothing left to hunt.”

Mikey closed his eyes. There was fire on the insides of their lids, howling with it.

“Either you do it,” she said, the coolness of her voice piercing through the dark behind Mikey's eyelids, “or they will.”

 

-

 

Mikey is sixteen years old when Nater Bastian decides that he is going to make a fucking demon deal. This is a fucking stupid decision; Nater is from fucking Breslau, which is not the GTA. Breslau is the kind of place where you wait until your draft year, and if you are looking like you might make the show, _then_ you make a poor decision. It is not Mikey's preferred method for handling draft pressure but it's fucking better than making a deal at thirteen, like the GTA boys all do.

Unfortunately, Daysy was on the Steelheads a year before Mikey, because he sold his soul to be _exceptional._ This means he got 21 games with Nater that Mikey did not, and Sean Day is fucked about hockey, fucked up enough that he puts Mississauga to shame.

So some asshole coach tells Nater he's gotta step his game up, and Nater tries to make a deal.

Fucking Nater.

 

“Should I be jealous?” Dylan asks. They are lying on Dylan’s bed, Dylan draped across Mikey’s chest while Mikey plays with his hair. Mikey is wearing an Otters shirsey with a 19 on the back and Dylan, in accordance, has put on a Don’t Doubt The Trout t-shirt that Mikey stole for him specially.

“Of Nater?” Mikey asks. “Oh, definitely. Just like I’m jealous of McDavid.”

“You can call him Connor, you know.”

“No, I can’t.”

Dylan makes a little face and shuffles up to kiss the underside of Mikey’s jaw. “You know I-”

“I know,” Mikey says. “Your best friend is Connor McDavid.”

“You’re my favourite, though,” Dylan says. “My favourite favourite.”

“Gross.”

“You love me.”

“I like you.”

 

Mikey is telling a story, anyway. Nater Bastian has a different birth year than Mikey; he’s a calendar year older, so he’s been on the Steelheads a little longer.

Nater is funny, and goofy, and works really, really hard. He is Mikey’s linemate. It is his job to open up space, so Mikey can speed past everyone else.

( _I'm totally jealous._

 _Shut up._ )

Nater is a good guy. Nater listens to Mikey, and wants to be so much better than he is. He'd do anything to make Mikey happy, which is a lot of power that Mikey doesn't think about too hard. It's not just Mikey, though, it's everybody.  Nater grew up in Breslau and now he's _here_ and he feels like he's playing catch up, all the time, every time.

Mikey is a middle child but nobody ever made him feel like that, and he wishes he could make it so nobody ever made Nater feel like that, either, but there are only so many things within his power.

So Daysy never fucking shuts up, and everyone's telling Nater he's gotta be better, and so they are in fucking North Bay and something feels wrong in Mikey's stomach so he goes outside. The air is tight, electric and tense.

Mikey says, “Nater?” He shivers. It's cold. His feet crunch through stiff grass.

( _It's fucking North Bay. It's always cold._ )

Nater is out back, behind the hotel. He's covered in moonlight and his fingers are shaking, and there is something coming, lurching out of the dark, out of a circle in chalk on the pavement.

“Fuck no,” Mikey says. He can feel it vibrating through him: like when he's making a play, like driving to the net. Like when he turns all the speed on and fucking _goes._

The thing feels wrong. They always feel wrong. They always feel like the way your teeth hurt when your skates get sharpened, like when you get up after a bad hit.

It looks like black ice. Like bad ice.

Nater is reaching out for it. His hand is red in the cool light.

( _You brought the knife with you?_

_Didn't think I had. But it was there in my duffel, so I must have._

_Okay, keep going._ )

Nater looks up and Mikey steps forward, like he's on skates, he's never moved so fast in his goddamn life. He's got the knife in his hand and he's saying, “Did you make it?”

Nater, blinking, wide-eyed: “Not yet,” he says. “I-”

That is all Mikey needs, he does not hesitate for a moment before his knife is moving forward and in and _through._ His hand carries him, his body moving with the momentum of a good hit, of a goal.

Heart first. Then throat.

( _Wish I'd done that._

 _I know._ )

“Holy fuck,” Nater says, standing there, covered in black sludge, dripping off his eyelashes, matting in his hair. Demon blood. It gets everywhere. The moonlight is cold and it’s stark across the pale slope of his wrist, where he cut himself open to invite a dark thing  in. “Clouder, what did you just _do?_ ”

Mikey wipes his knife on his shirt. He is covered in something black and dark and sticky; it falls away from his hand in strings, long and gooey and disgusting. “Don’t do that again,” Mikey says. His voice echoes, rasps in the night air.

“Okay,” Nater says.

“You don’t need to,” Mikey says. “I swear to you, you don’t. If anyone says you do, send em to me, okay?”

Nater is shaking, very slightly; Mikey sees this, realizes that he is shaking too. “Okay,” he says, as if to soothe. “Okay, Mikey.” He steps forward. Reaches for Mikey, like he’s scared Mikey will step away from him. Like Mikey is the one who needs to be taken care of, now.

Mikey says, “Just don’t.”

Nater says, “I won’t.”

They stare at each other. Mikey feels shaky and feral, like something else is moving through him, like he's something more, something beyond himself. Like, sometimes, when he just gets a feeling, and his speed kicks all the way in, and he’s flying, and then they win.

Nater closes his hand on Mikey's shoulder and Mikey breathes in hard. The tension drains out of him, as though he is lightning and Nate is one of those towers through which electricity runs, safely and harmlessly, to disperse into the ground.

They are going to be okay.

“It’s okay,” Mikey says. He's vibrating.

“I know,” Nater says. “You’re here.”

“You listen to _me_ ,” Mikey says. “Not Sean, okay? I’m right.”

“Okay,” Nater says. Like Mikey is the one that just almost lost everything. “You are, Mikey. I believe in you.”

 

“I have a story, too,” Dylan says. “Remember when Connor broke his hand?”

Mikey says, “This is gonna be a bad one, isn't it?” He remembers what it looked like from their end: Bryson, shaking his head over and over, Bryson saying, _it’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone_. He had sounded like he missed it. Like he had lost part of his heart.

Connor McDavid punched the boards and broke his hand; Bryson was the thing he was supposed to hit, and instead of a black eye Bryson got his demon devoured.

“They’re all bad ones,” Dylan says. His eyes are bright. Mikey wants to wrap his arms around Dylan and hold on. If he had wings he would envelop Dylan in them, and keep him safe from the entire world.

Mikey does not have wings and even if he did Dylan would not want to be enveloped. This is Dylan Strome, who Mikey understands better than he understands himself: Dylan Strome, who cast himself a knight in armour, who surrounds himself with those to be saved.

Mikey swallows and kisses Dylan carefully, kindly. Their lips are both chapped from rink-cold. “Okay.”

“It was my fault,” Dylan says. He lifts his head and looks away. Dylan, who was raised to be distinct and better, now in all this demon mess. Mikey killed the demon that wanted Nater and walked around all night covered in the black supernatural guts of it, but that is Dylan every day of his life now that he has chosen Connor McDavid, or had Connor McDavid chosen for him. “I shouldn't have pushed.”

“Oh,” Mikey says.

“It wasn't about me,” Dylan says, quietly. If Mikey were to squint he would see the black shadows on Dylan's throat, on his hands; fingerprints, where the demon held on. Mikey keeps his eyes open. “It was about Brinks. Connor's demon liked him, you know? He puts up points. He loves Connor.”

Mikey tucks Dylan's cheek against his own throat, rubs his fingers in tight circles at the base of Dylan's neck. His skin feels soft and warm. He smells like sweat and juniper. “You said no to it,” he says. Asking for reassurance, for both of them.

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Every time, Mikes, every single fucking time.”

“He didn't.”

“He loves Connor,” Dylan says. “And it's not - not really a thing there. They don't know about doing it or not doing it, you know? He's so fucking small.”

“It can't make him _grow._ ”

“It could,” Dylan says, murmuring it into the hollow of Mikey’s throat. “If it wanted.”

Mikey says, “Did he say yes?” He doesn't know Alex DeBrincat, except for the statistics and also what Dylan has told him, which boil down to: DeBrincat is small, American, and undrafted; nobody wanted him except the Otters, and he is lighting everyone up, and he is on Connor's wing, and he makes Dylan laugh. He had no demon when he came to them, a good American boy with his soul all his, and Dylan is accidentally so protective of him, so fond. Dylan calls him their baby, and glows every time he talks about DeBrincat. Dylan wants purely and entirely to keep him safe.

Dylan stills, hiding his face in Mikey's shirt, breath ragged. “I took it back,” he says. “I fixed it. Connor helped.”

Mikey sighs. “What did you do?”

“Pushed it out of him,” Dylan says. “It was new, it didn’t have time to get its hooks in. That thing your mom did on Gabe, remember?”

Gabe McBride, three blocks over, who made a deal and then shouldn't have. Mikey's mom poured salt water on him and blessed him, and pressed a crucifix against his throat so it hissed like a brand, and afterwards Matt hugged her and she sagged against him and said, _please don't ever do that_ , and all of her sons swore that of course they would not.

And none of them did. Not even when Matt went 105th to Barrie in the OHL draft, not even when Dylan Strome moved to Erie and handed his heart and soul to Connor McDavid.

“He’s okay now?”

Dylan nods. “Connor helped. He held Brinksy down while I- with the holy water, you know.”

“Yeah,” Mikey said. Thought about Gabe, mouth open, screaming, the worst sound in the whole world. “Fuck.”

“It didn’t like that,” Dylan said. “So it pushed.”

“And then Connor fought Bryson?”

“I don’t know if he missed because it wanted him to. He’s a good fighter, Mikes. He knows how to do it. Hitting the boards is a rookie move, and he’s never been one of those.”

“It was making a point,” Mikey says, sounding it out. “But he went to World Juniors.”

“Barely,” Dylan says. “He was so scared. I’ve never seen him so scared.”

Mikey leans back, turns his face into his pillow. Rubs at Dylan’s shoulders carefully, kindly. He should say, _Bryson’s still fucked up about it_ ; should say, _it hurt him, you know, he dreams about the thing he lost._ But that’s not Dylan’s fault. Dylan didn’t know he was doing that. The only thing that would do, ever, would be to make Dylan sad.

“I didn’t mean to,” Dylan says. “I just wanted to keep Brinks safe.”

“I know,” Mikey says. “It’s okay.” _I absolve you._ _You are forgiven._

Dylan hiccups.

Mikey pulls him up by the edges of his elbows and kisses him, so he will know.

 

The entire bus ride home, Nater sits next to Mikey, between him and the window. Mikey settles his hand on the inside of Nater’s thigh and digs his fingers into the muscle there hard enough to bruise, and Nater lets him do it.

He does not tell Dylan this.

In Mikey's defense, Connor McDavid almost missed World Juniors defending Dylan's sense of principle. In-season, they live in different worlds.

 

-

 

After he killed the angel, Mikey went home. There was blood on his fingers and his hands, and it spattered all the way up his wrists, burning a little when Mikey couldn’t manage to put it at the back of his mind.

He put the knife in the top drawer of his bedside table and then he took a shower. The gold didn’t come out of his wrists, out of his forearms. They still hurt. The hot water stung his back, his shoulderblades.

He put a sweater on, even though it was warm inside the house. When he pulled it down past his knuckles it was okay, it covered everything.

“Hey, Mikey,” said his mom, sitting next to the stove; beside her Matt was picking at a handful of lavender, and he threw a little at Mikey.

“Where’s the rue?” Mikey asked, catching the lavender leaves in his hand and rolling them around. The scent burst, sweet and strong.

“What do you need that for?” Mikey's mom put the lid on the pot of whatever it was and turned to look at him.

Matt reached up into the cabinet over the stove. He was already, even then, a little more interested in plants than he was in hockey, though both were great loves of his life. “For a summons,” he said, thoughtfully. “Rue calls angels.”

“Matthew,” said Mikey's mom. (Matthew is a Biblical name, also. Not an angel, though.)

Mikey shrugged. “It smells good,” he said. “That’s it.”

 

Matt said, “You okay, kiddo?”

Mikey went and leaned his shoulder against Matt’s side, and let Matt put his arm around Mikey. “Yeah,” he said. “Everything smells like demons.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. He looked down at Mikey and breathed out, softly. He looked older than he was, and Mikey would have been concerned but he felt ancient, a thousand years old, so he didn't think about it.

“Like rotten eggs,” Mikey said tiredly. “But everywhere.”

Matt tucked a handful of rosemary into his hair, down the collar of his shirt. It helped, but not enough.

 

-

 

They are coming up on Dylan’s draft. It is Connor’s draft, too, and Mitchell Marner’s, but Mikey thinks of it as Dylan’s because nobody else does.

“I think,” Dylan says, “that I am going to have to do something.”

Mikey is having an okay season. Mikey is very fast, and he has Nater. Their team is not having a great season. They will probably not make the playoffs.

Dylan is having a very good season. Mitchell is also having a very good season. Connor McDavid is being Connor McDavid, which is to say, OHL records are a joke to him.

“What kind of something?” Mikey asks.

Dylan's face goes distant. By now Mikey knows this look: it is the one that says _Davo_ on it, all over, in love and in warmth.

It used to make Mikey's stomach burn but now it doesn't, because Mikey is a McLeod and he is capable of adapting to a new situation or getting the fuck out. And Dylan is a Strome and Stromes and McLeods stick together, so.

Mikey’s not getting out. Mikey wouldn’t want to get out, anyway. This is where Mikey belongs.

 

The draft lottery happens.

Edmonton win it.

 _99,_ Mikey thinks. Gretzky numbers.

 

Dylan is not supposed to be in Mississauga. Dylan is supposed to be in Erie. He has a game tomorrow.

Mikey knows, because he has a little schedule that has an otter on the corner of it. It is pinned to the wall over his desk, with little gold stars whenever Erie is at Sauga or Sauga is at Erie.

Dylan is in Mississauga, at the foot of Mikey’s bed. The light from Mikey's window falls across his face and makes the circles under his eyes even darker than they normally are.

“You're fucking creepy,” Mikey says. He sits up and pushes his blankets down so they pool around his waist, and makes fists of his hands, and pushes them at the sleep in his eyes. “What’s going on, Dyl? Did something happen?”

“I slept with Mitch in Slovakia,” Dylan says, too fast. “Also, I need the knife.”

Mikey’s stomach hurts, empty and hollow. “What?”

“It was at the U18. Me and you weren’t serious yet,” Dylan says, and drops his eyes to the ground. “The knife from the angel. You know I’m owed it as much as you are.”

“You were scared of it,” Mikey says. “You _are_ scared of it.” He drags his hand over his mouth. “Only in Slovakia?”

“No,” Dylan says. It bursts out of his mouth, bitter, full of regret. “Not only in Slovakia.” His eyes are dark, like the shadows. “I - you don't want details. But not only in Slovakia.”

Mikey swallows, hard. “Don’t die,” he says.

“I’m really scared,” Dylan says. “Whatever Connor’s demon is planning - It’s about Edmonton. Once he’s in Edmonton I won’t be able to take it back.”

Mikey's bones ache. “You think you can make it take back anything now?”

“I think I have to try.”

Mikey says, “Okay.” He gets up, pushes the blankets away. His feet are cold. His whole body is cold. “It's a lot more powerful than you are. Be careful, as much as you can.”

Dylan says, “I needed to tell you.”

“Is it because he needs to be saved?” Mikey asks. He throws it, like a grenade. “Because you can't save Connor, and we both know, I'm braver than you.”

“I'm gonna save Connor,” Dylan says. He closes his mouth. “Mikey.”

“You can have it,” Mikey says.

He shakes his head and goes to his bedside table and pulls out the top drawer; there it is, wrapped in rue and marigold, rosemary and sage and juniper blossoms, and wound around it all his favourite Mickey Mouse t-shirt from when he was seven.

He takes the knife out, shakes his t-shirt off it. Holds it up to the moonlight to look. The silver light only makes the gold of it more bright.

“There’s still blood on it,” Dylan says. He is mostly looking at Mikey's face, now. Not the knife.

“It doesn’t come off,” Mikey says. “I scrubbed. With bleach and shit.”

“You try rose oil?” Dylan asks. He is balancing on the balls of his feet like he could run, like he could go somewhere, fast. Like he's ready got a fight. “Lavender?”

“No,” Mikey says. “I’m a fucking idiot and my brother isn’t obsessed with plants. Of course I did.”

Dylan ducks his head. “Sorry.”

Mikey shakes his. “That’s what you’re sorry for? Don’t answer that.” He traces his fingers along the hilt of it and feels it sing in his hand; it’s always been like that, this knife. Always been for him.

“I just,” Dylan says. “I needed to tell you the truth. In case.”

“In case?” Mikey says.

“Things go wrong sometimes,” Dylan says. “With demons.” He holds his hand out and Mikey puts the knife in it. It feels weird, to let it go. “It wouldn't be fair not to tell you. You have to be honest, right? That's what she said. Pure of heart.”

Mikey closes his eyes. “Go save McDavid,” he says. “Don't lose my knife.”

“Mikey,” Dylan says. Reaching for him.

Mikey leans back, away. “Save McDavid,” he says. “That's the only thing you care about, anyway. I hope Marner knows.”

“Mikey,” Dylan repeats.

Mikey's stomach hurts. “Get out.” His voice shakes.

“Okay,” Dylan says. “Mikes-”

Mikey stares at him, at the moonlight on him, at his mouth Mikey remembers kissing. He thinks about Marner and the way his body twists, wrong, because of the demon. He wonders if it hurts Dylan to fuck Marner; if it hurts Marner to fuck Dylan. He wonders if that is why Dylan made all those poultices to press into Marner’s hands.

“Go home,” Mikey says. His teeth hurt. His fingers ache. “You don't belong here anymore.”

 

-

 

Mikey was not alone, of course. Mikey never did anything alone, not when he was seven years old; not when Dylan was right there. Dylan helped Mikey find the angel, and stood shoulder to shoulder with him and was blessed; and together they agreed that they would do as she asked.

Mikey wasn’t the one who was supposed to do it. Dylan was there; Dylan was a year older, Dylan was supposed to be the brave one. Their moms always told Dylan to look after Mikey.

But Dylan’s hand shook, so Mikey stepped forward and took the knife from him.

 

The angel said, “Michael.”

Mikey’s hand hurt and Mikey’s shoulders were as straight as he could make them. “Heart first,” he said. “And then throat.”

“Mikey,” Dylan began.

“It’s okay,” Mikey said. He put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder, closing his fingers over the spur of it. “I got it, D.”

She looked so tired, and so sad.

“My name is Michael,” he said, softly, kindly. He felt like he was touching something else, something bright and good. “I absolve you.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes shone. He realized she was weeping.

The archangel Michael, in Roman Catholic tradition, is a patron of the dead. He descends to judge the dying, and carry them home.

Mikey was seven years old.

He didn't think about any of that.

He just bit his lip, and went: _heart first. Then throat._

 

-

 

Mikey wears rosemary, and sometimes rue. Remembrance; repentance. Mikey looked up things that angels liked, and didn’t tell his mom why.

Dylan wears juniper and basil. He used to put them in his skates, but then Mikey’s mom taught him to sew the leaves into the sleeves of his sweaters, so he does that instead. It’s fun watching Dylan sit there with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, sewing little packets of herbs into his gross gear.

Well. It used to be fun.

Mikey wears different herbs. Mikey is closer to the angel than Dylan. Mikey is the one that put the knife in it, in the end.

 

The Steelheads don’t make it to the playoffs. It feels like shit. Mikey’s used to winning, and losing fucking sucks.

Sean looks at Mikey and says, “Maybe if some of us had a little more grit.” He doesn’t mean grit, like, why didn't you let McDavid break his hand on your face. He means: _if some of us would man up and sell our goddamn souls._

Mikey punches him in the jaw. Harder than he means to. Once, then again, and then he freezes with his hand in Sean’s sweater and Sean staring at him, Mikey staring right back.

Nate has to pull him off, hand tangled in the back of Mikey’s shirt.

“Fuck,” Nater says. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mikey says, shaking his hand out. “We’re fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Nate says. “You've been an asshole all week.”

“Dylan and I broke up,” Mikey says. This is enough of the story. This has to be enough of the story.

Nate says, “Mikey.” He is soft and careful with it. Everyone is staring.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mikey says again, firmly. “Daysy, if demons could fix this, don’t you think you’d be leading the league?”

That shuts Sean up. His face is bright red.

“Come on,” Nate says, steering Mikey into the trainer’s room with a hand on the small of his back. Dylan used to touch Mikey like that sometimes. He used to touch Marner like that all the time. Mikey just wasn't looking.

“We weren't good for each other anyway,” Mikey says. If you say it enough times it becomes true.

Nate bumps his knee against Mikey's. “He's stupid,” he says. “You're so fucking special, Mikey.”

Mikey’s stomach hurts. “If I was more special we’d be in the playoffs,” he says.

“I can go make a deal now,” Nate says, lightly. Like it's something you can joke about.

“Don't you dare,” Mikey says, lurching forward. “Don't even think about it, Nate.” His stomach turns over. His heart tries to jump up through his throat. He clutches for Nate’s wrists.

“Whoa,” Nate says. “Okay, I won't.”

“You can't, okay?” He sounds like he is on the verge of tears. He didn't mean to, but he does. “Promise.”

“I swear,” Nate says. He pulls Mikey in and holds him, just slightly too tight. “I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry.”

“Just don't,” Mikey says, into Nate's shoulder. “Just-”

“I won't,” Nate says, soft and solemn, like an oath. “I promise, Michael McLeod. No demons here. Only me.”

 

-

 

The night after Mikey killed the angel was cool and clear. He pushed his window up and climbed down and out, feet slipping down the brick siding, fingers clutching at the pipes, at the ledges. His feet hit the ground firmly, with a thump.

When he put his fingers to the rink, ice flooded out. Like a whisper, like a dream.

“Oh,” he said. He stepped out onto it and everything was light. His body bore no weight, his bones were made of air. When he stretched his arms out, his back itched.

_Up. Not out._

Mikey was fast. That was the thing about him, the notable thing that you could tell, even at seven. Mikey was fast. He wasn’t all that disciplined, and his shot wasn’t all that good; he was garbage at checking and even worse at remembering to backcheck. But when he wanted it, when he was really feeling it, well.

Mikey’s first not-his-dad coach had said, _when he wants to, it’s like he’s flying._ Once, when Mikey was really little, his dad had held him back off the ice and he ran so fast he sliced his dad's foot open.

_Up, not out._

Mikey opened his eyes and looked down.

It was not a surprise, to see himself all the way off the ground.

 

That night, Mikey dreamed of wings.

 

-

 

Here is a fact about the Mississauga Steelheads: they only became the Steelheads in 2012, when they moved to Mississauga. Before that, they were the St Michael’s Majors; they played in downtown Toronto and nobody went to see them, but it is important that this is what they were called.

Mikey was drafted a Steelhead, but teams have legacies, and names are important.

Saint Michael was an archangel. They sent him into the parts of the world that were too pagan; they wrote him a story to fight all things dark and dangerous in the name of the Lord,  and then they built churches upon the lands that Michael claimed, and erased what was there before.

Toronto has been thick with demons for a long, long time.

It has never been at war.

Maybe it should have been.

 

When Mikey put the knife to the throat of the thing that wanted Nate, it looked at him, and it was afraid.

Mikey lifted his head and felt incredible. Like nothing could touch him. Like nothing ever would.

This is the secret: Mikey did it, and he thought, _oh._ Thought, _for this is what I have been made._

 

Mikey sleeps in Mississauga, in his childhood bedroom, in his childhood sheets. He tangles his hands in them, and then:

There is a crossroad, and there is moonlight falling on it. No snow, because it is late March, but there is a circle drawn in salt, and Mikey knows what it means because he’s read that shape a thousand times. It’s neater than Nater’s was. That’s something, at least.

It's dark, but Mikey can see.

Dylan is standing in the circle, and Connor with him. Connor looks like Connor does, and Dylan looks at Connor the way Dylan looks at Connor, and Mikey’s heart aches.

Dylan says, “Trust me.” He’s holding the knife. He looks so fucking tired, and so fucking scared, but his mouth is doing that thing it does; his shoulders are doing that thing that they do. He looks brave, Mikey thinks, and cannot help but feel proud.

Connor shakes his head. His noble head, just waiting to be crowned. “Dylan,” he says.

“I didn't love you,” Dylan says. “I thought I would hate you. I thought you deserved all of this. I thought you were cheating, I thought you just wanted to do this faster than everybody else.”

Connor’s mouth opens, closes. “Dylan,” he says.

“I know,” Dylan says, leaning forward, pressing his forehead to Connor’s. He says it like a prayer, the words rushing out of him. “I know that’s not what it is. You needed to do it. You needed to be the best. It’s what you are.”

Connor’s hands come up. They tangle in the collar of Dylan's shirt and for a moment Mikey thinks they are about to kiss; but they would not, of course. That is beyond them, an alien world in the face of the magnitude of what they are. “Dylan,” Connor whispers again. He sounds broken with longing.

“You don’t need it,” Dylan says. “It makes you different, Connor. It makes you everything you’re not. It makes you forget anyone else exists, makes you think there’s only the game, but there isn’t. That’s not you, and I thought it was, but it isn’t. But if you keep this thing longer, I think - I’m just really scared, Connor, that it might _become_ you.”

“I love you,” Connor says. “You know that, right? I - before you, I didn’t know what I was.”

“I know you love it,” Dylan says, quietly. “I know it loves you, as much as it can.”

“It hurt you,” Connor says. He raises his right hand and traces it along the side of Dylan’s face; Mikey watches his fingers pause and still, by turns, on a scrape, a bruise, the soft purpling remnant of a black eye. “Did I do that?”

“No,” Dylan says. His mouth presses itself into a tight line. “99 did.”

“Fuck,” Connor says, twisting his face away for a moment before he turns it back. “Dylan, I can’t-”

“I know,” Dylan says. “I have a plan, okay? I just need you to trust me. It’s an exorcism. It’s easy. You just gotta follow the steps. Please?”

Connor’s mouth curls down at the corner. His shoulders are still, but he loves Dylan. Mikey knows what that looks like. Connor McDavid is a generational talent, a gift from the universe to the sport of hockey, but he, like Mikey McLeod, would follow Dylan Strome into the scream of a whirlwind, into the mouth of a shark, into the burning hearts of a thousand suns. “I love you,” he says. “I trust you.”

Dylan exhales, like a great gift has been given to him. Like he expected Connor McDavid to say anything else. Oh, Dylan, Mikey almost thinks. “Oh.”

Connor smiles at him, tiny and sweet and precious, and broken-hearted. “It hurt you,” he says, softly. “I didn’t know what it was to be hurt, until it hurt you. I didn’t know what it felt like, and then you came, and you made me brave. I won’t let it hurt you anymore.”

“Yeah?” Dylan shivers. “You’ll let me break this contract?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, calm and sure. His smile remains, unwavering. “I won’t be the thing that hurts you anymore. Do your thing, Dyl.”

Connor is brilliant but hockey is a team sport. Connor understands about trust.

Dylan is holding the knife. Dylan’s hands are shaking.

Dylan knows how to do an exorcism. Mikey knows that Dylan knows this. Mikey and Dylan grew up with these words on their lips, with salt and sage and the knowledge of this most important thing: you belong to yourself, and nobody else.

He watches Dylan lay out the items, follow the steps. There's blood, old blood; there's sage and salt and a circle so complex Dylan must have gone somewhere dark to find it. There’s an amulet, there’s words in a language Mikey’s never heard, but it vibrates through his bones anyway, and through Connor until Connor is sobbing, and falling to his knees.

Through all of it, Dylan stands, shoulders straight, eyes bright. Dylan Strome, at the height of his powers, in the magnitude of his own will.

He’s beautiful, Mikey thinks. He cannot look away.

Neither can Connor. Connor, in the circle, with his hair pale in the light, his eyes fixed on Dylan as though Dylan is the centre of the world.

 _Dylan_ , Mikey thinks. _Follow through, Dylan._ He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know how he is watching; and then the demon steps out of Connor’s body and into the circle, and then it grabs Dylan by the throat.

“Little boy,” it croons. “Did you really think you could play with me?” Its teeth are so, so sharp.

Dylan freezes. His eyes widen; his breath comes in short, shuddering gasps.

And Mikey realizes:

He has wings. That’s where he is. He is watching, because he is suspended in the air, by the grace of his own flight.

The only thing he has ever wanted is to step down and take the knife from Dylan’s limp hand that has fallen to his side and put it to the throat of Connor McDavid’s demon.

He stretches out his wings behind him, an enormous mass of feathers and will. He feels like he felt when he saved Nathan; immortal, incredible.

 _This is why you were made, Michael._ _Everything you are has lead you to this moment._

St Michael is an archangel. It is his task to smite the serpents, and the dragons, and the darkness that is against the name of the lord.

When Mikey was a little boy, an angel sang and set a horde of demons alight. He dreams about that moment, still.

 

Everything stops. From the sky descends the archangel, and the darkness ends, because it is so bright. It does not hurt Mikey’s eyes. Maybe it ought to.

“Michael,” says the archangel. It is beautiful; resplendent. Mikey doesn’t really think in words like that but he is thinking in them now. It is so, so beautiful. Mikey has never seen anything so beautiful; not even the first angel. He could weep; his eyes are watering. “It is time.”

Mikey wraps his arms around himself. He wants to kneel. Wants to do whatever it is it asks of him. “Yeah?”

Michael, who is the archangel, who is Mikey's namesake and the destiny that has followed him since Mikey was seven years old, reaches out towards Mikey with one shining hand. “You’re mine, Michael. You know it; you were chosen.”

“This is how I save Dylan,” Mikey says, feeling it out, cautiously, with care. “Is that it?”

“It’s easy,” the archangel says. “You just have to trust me. Let me in, Michael, and we can kill it together, you and me. This world is out of balance. We can rectify that mistake.”

Mikey swallows. He looks down, at Connor McDavid on his knees and Dylan Strome caught in the grasp of something dark and malevolent, at the black cloud that circles around them both like the antithesis of a halo.

Mikey looks up again.

“It’s easy,” says the archangel. Mikey trusts it. It is gleaming, powerful; it is the fire that the first angel rained down upon the things following it. “I need your body, Michael. It’s only flesh that can touch flesh, and the thing that haunts the one you love has bound itself. Let me in, and we can save him.”

Nothing is easy. Mikey knows that. Mikey grew up in Mississauga.

But he wants, and - angels aren’t like anything else. Demons are afraid of them. Terrified. Demons are afraid of Mikey and Dylan, because once an angel touched them.

“We’ll kill it,” Mikey says, sounding out the syllables, thinking about fire and floods and things that end, biblically, in disaster. “And Dylan will be okay.”

“And Dylan will be saved,” the archangel agrees.

It would be easy. Mikey knows it now with the certainty that he knows rosemary for remembrance, that he knows the tightness of his skate-laces and the warmth of Dylan’s mouth. Mikey would just open up his heart, and the archangel would walk in.

This is for what he was made; he thinks, he feels, he knows. So that this being made of light might be bound to earth, so that it might bring cool, clear justice in its sword hand.

He longs for it. Everything in him is drawn to this understanding: _do the right thing. Do as it has been foretold._

It's only Mikey who can do this. He knows, he feels it; the space of the archangel is Mikey's, and no one else's. He would be so powerful. _They_ would be so powerful.

Untouchable.

In the name of their father, they would act. They would cleanse this world of sin.

Mikey’s heart beats. He does not look away from the archangel, but he thinks about Dylan; Dylan with his shaking hands, with his bright eyes. Dylan who kissed him, and held him, and betrayed him in the end. “What happens to Connor?”

It tilts its head to one side. It has no pupils, no iris. Its eyes are all the same iridescent, shining glow. “Who?”

“Connor,” Mikey says. “The boy with the demon inside him.”

The archangel gleams. “There is only the demon,” it says. “Nothing else. Only a thing to be destroyed.”

“Connor is a _person_ ” says Mikey. He thinks, _you sound like Dylan_. But that doesn’t make it untrue.

“You love that boy,” the archangel says. “Would you not bring him salvation?”

Mikey looks down. Beneath them, the demon is curled malevolently around Dylan’s throat, and Connor McDavid is reaching for it, with his soft and beautiful hands, for whom Dylan has already given up all things.

“It will kill him,” the angel says. “It will tear him limb from limb. His bones are ours, but it can take everything around them, and it will.”

_In exchange for Connor._

It should be easy.

It should be math. It’s always been Mikey and Dylan versus the demon boys.

Dylan loves Connor so, so much. So much that he is standing here, now, fearless, and unashamed. He knew this might come. He weighed it up, and called it worthwhile.

He made this choice.

“It can only be you,” says the archangel, softly, like a song. “You have waited for me all this time, Michael. So that we might save them, both of us. I can only act if it comes from love. I can only act if you, a child of my father, asks me for this blessing.”

Dylan loves Connor.

Dylan loves Connor, and Mikey gave him the knife.

“I can't,” Mikey says. “I can't do that, I won't.”

Michael the archangel stares at him, hollow-eyed and furious. “You bring this upon yourself,” it says.

Mikey breathes in. His chest hurts. “I know,” he says. His voice slips into the metre of ritual, into a steady ache like a promise. “I do it willingly.”

The archangel says, “You condemn him.”

Mikey bites his lip. “I love him,” he says. Perhaps they are the same thing. Connor loves Dylan, too.

 

Time begins again; the gates open, and it floods over them, and Mikey breathes.

Connor McDavid gets to his feet and looks at his demon. “If you hurt him I will never forgive you,” he says. “Until the end of my life, do you understand? Until the end of all things. I will never bring you a Cup.”

It looks back at him, calm and sure, and black like a nightmare. “Connor,” it says. It sounds like the pressing weight of expectation. “Really?”

Connor's face crumples. “Please,” he says, and he’s begging, and he sounds so young. “I'm sorry.”

“Didn't I save you?” the demon asks. “You were a child, and I came for you. When have I ever hurt you?”

“If you hurt him you hurt me,” says Connor. His voice changes. Now, he speaks fiercely, as though to draw breath is to swallow knives, but it is worth being said. “And you hurt him with every moment of every day.”

“I have loved you since before he was dust in your eye. I have loved you since before he drew breath.” The voice of it echoes. “Have I not been good to you? Have I not given you everything you asked for?”

“Not Toronto,” Connor says, swiftly, and shakes his head as if to clear it. “But that doesn’t matter. This does.”

“You have been mine since you were a child,” says the demon. “Since that first moment you stepped onto ice. Do you not remember?”

“I made a deal when I was seven,” Connor says. “Before that-”

“Before that you were mine,” 99 says. “You have always been mine. Remember? You were so small, and your skates wobbled, and you looked at me and I was there. I whispered to you, as you dreamed. I knew you would call me when you were ready.”

“I was seven,” Connor says, quietly, as though he is dreaming. “Dylan always says that was too young. But you came before that, didn’t you? Before I even-”

“You were always mine,” says the demon. “Time doesn’t matter. Don’t you want to be what you are? What I made you?”

Dylan makes a quiet, appalled sound. “Connor,” he whispers. He’s crying, Mikey realizes, but softly. There are tears coursing down his cheeks, but he keeps the sobs bitten back.

“I was three,” Connor says, in slow, cresting horror. “The first time I skated I was three years old.”

“I love you,” says 99. “No one will ever love you as I do.”

Connor shakes his head, swift and sharp. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I believe you.”

“ _Connor,_ ” Dylan repeats, in agony.

Connor squeezes his shoulder. “Shh,” he says. “Shh, Dyl, please.”

Dylan’s face twists up, but he holds himself still.

“He’ll do it,” Connor says, face fixed on the demon, turned away from the boy at his feet. “Whatever you need. He’ll swear to you, all right? Please. He’s mine, I love him.”

“I-,” Dylan starts.

Connor does not move. “Please,” he says. The light shines on his face. “Dylan. Please.”

Dylan takes a breath and swipes at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I wanted to save you,” he says.

Connor drops his voice, and turns to Dylan, so he can curl his hands around Dylan’s face, and cradle it gently. “You think if I lose you I'm anything but damned? You saved me the moment I met you, Dyl. Demon or no demon. It was you.”

“It wasn't,” Dylan protests. His eyes are bright. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth.

The knife is in the dust, between Connor’s feet. Mikey stares at it, but he is trapped; he made his choice. _You could have stopped this. Now here you are._

“If you don’t do this,” Connor begins - and then he swallows, and closes his eyes, and steels himself - “if you don’t do this it will make me kill you, do you understand?”

A soft, startled sound erupts from Dylan’s mouth.

“Shh, no,” Connor says, rubs his thumb under Dylan’s eyes to clear the first rush of tears, takes a breath and bows his head. “No, I wouldn’t, I won’t, I can’t. I swear. I won’t let it, Dylan, I won’t let it touch you, and I’ll die trying. Is that what you want?”

Dylan breathes out, a sob, and pulls away from Connor’s hands.

The demon waits, a black cloud, watching.

Connor swallows. He takes Dylan’s wrists in his own hands, and turns them over, so they are bare in the light, and free of scars. Dylan never made a deal; it was Mikey who was hit by all that angel’s blood. “Please.”

Dylan says, “ _Connor._ ” It sounds like a litany, like a prayer. 

Connor kisses the palms of Dylan’s upturned hands; the left, then the right.

Dylan lets him. Still, unmoving. He has stopped crying and his eyes flash black and wet in the darkness, and his breath comes in harsh, unsteady beats.

“Please,” Connor says, again. He shifts both Dylan’s wrists to his left hand, and, stooping, curls his right about the knife. “Please, Dyl.” The knife drags through the moonlight, and traces, very gently, along Dylan’s wrists with their veins that are so, so blue and bare. “I love you so much.”

Dylan says, “Connor, I didn’t mean to fuck up, I promise-”

And Connor says, “I’m so fucking sorry, Dylan, I swear, if I could do anything-”

And Dylan bows his head and anchors his knees in the dirt and he says, “All right. Fuck. All right.” He has gone so still. Dylan is not supposed to be like this. Dylan is never at rest.

Mikey settles his eyes on Connor. He hopes Connor knows this, too. He hopes Connor knows what it is that has happened, because of him.

Dylan takes the knife from Connor's hand and drags it along the inside of his wrist, the way all the good Canadian boys do it; no hesitation, just commitment. You're all in or you're not. “I swear,” he says, looking up at the demon with calm, cool eyes. “Never again will I act against you. My loyalty is to Connor, and that means it is to you. Always.”

Connor kisses his forehead, like a king receiving an oath. “Thank you.”

Dylan is crying again, the rally fallen away in the face of this great despair. Quiet, though, not sobbing loud like Dylan usually cries; this is soft, self contained. His body shakes, trembling, as though he has been wracked with miniature earthquakes. “I'm sorry.”

Connor dips his fingers in Dylan's blood and offers it to his demon. “I love you,” he says, to his best friend, in the heat of that Connor McDavid voice, the one that wins games, the one that makes men decades older than him shiver in awe. “Understand that always. I do this because I love you.”

Connor’s demon wraps itself around Connor in a malevolent veil. It whirls like a storm, furious and commanding. “You think I do this for any reason other than love?”

Its voice is a thunderstorm. Mikey shivers, imagining the force of it directed at him; he feels biblical, as though he might be reduced to a pillar of salt.

But Connor stands straight, and firm, and still. The demon made a prince to serve it, but it forgot that princes are not made to be ruled. “Take this,” he says. His voice rings with the clarity of new ice, of a goal horn. “You have your covenant.”

 

The archangel says, _You know this is his worst nightmare. Now he is what he hated. You have condemned him; he is despoiled, untouchable._

“It isn't,” Mikey says. He knows many things, and Dylan Strome he knows best of all of them. Even when he was pretending he didn't. “Losing Connor is his worst nightmare. And I saved him from that.”

He turns his face away from the archangel, from its glory and its unkindness and the thing it wants to make of him. It is so, so beautiful.

Mikey draws breath. In the same tenor with which he killed the first angel, with that coolness and that strength now flooding through him like the first ice on the rink, he speaks. “I don't want to watch this anymore. Let me go.”

It does not, of course. This is a power play. It must make sure Mikey knows that it is more powerful than he is.

Dylan is kneeling before Connor McDavid, and McDavid’s hands grasp his shoulders, knuckles white with effort.

Dylan hides his face in Connor’s stomach, cheek pressed against Connor’s belly; Connor holds him tight and stares at the demon, square-on. “I will never forgive you,” he tells it. “Not as long as I live.”

“You’ve said that before,” the demon says, laughing. “Oh, little boy. Shh. It will all be forgotten, in time.”

Connor’s hand curls around the back of Dylan’s neck. His fingers are red with Dylan’s blood; they look as though they have rusted over. “I trusted you,” he says.

The demon whispers, a whirlwind, a caress. “You will again,” it says. “I made you, and you are mine.”

Mikey takes a breath and pulls his wings close around himself, and covers his own eyes with them, until he can see only feathers.

 

Mikey wakes up and he is in his own bed in Mississauga. There is dust in his hair and there is no knife under his pillow: instead, next to his bed, lying incongruous on his dark green carpet, a sword.

Mikey stoops and picks it up, gingerly, by the hilt. It's heavy. He doesn't know how much swords are supposed to weigh; he doesn't think he is supposed to hold it like a hockey stick.

It is long, about the length of Mikey's forearm, then half again. It gleams gold like the knife did, but now the brightness of it shines hollow to Mikey's eyes.

It is so sharp. He could cut the air if he wanted; slice it right open and reduce it to atoms, to floating electrons and neutrons and whatever else he didn't pay very much attention to in Physics.

 _If you change your mind_ , says the angel, in the whisper of the trees outside his bedroom window. _When you change your mind. Shed the blood of the abomination with this blade, and I will come._

Mikey swallows, very hard. He puts the sword back under the bed and goes to the window and pulls it shut, with a very loud thud.

 

-

 

Three days after they killed the angel, Dylan and Mikey went to church. They had never been altar boys but it seemed like the right thing to do.

They got Dylan’s dad to drive them, though he was confused as to why Lorne Park's middle sons had wanted to skip an extra two hours on the rink or in the drive and instead attempt to not fidget, not sneeze, and stare instead at floating dust motes that caught themselves in the light that drifted down through stained-glass windows. Dylan’s family were Christmas and Easter Catholics; Easter was coming up, though nobody was observing Lent. The Mcleods showed up for Christmases, usually. Alternating Easters, when they didn't conflict with hockey.

Dylan stood in the light in front of a statue of an angel. She had a plaster face, and no eyes. The light behind her was pink and blue and yellow.

“Mikey,” he said.

Mikey came up behind him and held his hand. “I know,” he said. The light caught in his eyelashes. He pushed his shirtsleeves up, past his elbows; the scars had healed now, and all that was left wound round his wrists and up them, circling in loose golden circles, interrupted with little splashes, where the blood had spilled too much. There was more on the left forearm than the right; he had used his left hand to hold her still.

“I’m sorry I didn’t,” Dylan said. “I should have.”

“It’s okay,” Mikey said. “Someone had to, so I did.”

Dylan tilted his face up. “It doesn’t look like her,” he said. “The wings are wrong. There should be more.”

“Yeah,” Mikey said. “Six. And not shaped like a bird’s.”

“The demons aren’t supposed to be here,” Dylan said, quietly.

“No,” Mikey said. “They aren’t.” They are a sin. A transgression. _Wrong_.

“We’re supposed to-”

“She chose us,” Mikey said. He felt it vibrate through his chest and stretched out his hands at his sides, extending his fingertips as far out as they would go. “She chose us on purpose. She wanted us to hear her calling.”

 

Later, he would think: is this what the demon told McDavid? That he was born for it? He did not think it, then. When Mikey was seven years old he did not know about Connor McDavid.

 

-

 

Unlike the Steelheads, the Otters make it to the OHL playoffs. Everyone predicts they are going to go deep, and it looks like everyone is right.

The Otters sweep the Knights and then beat the Greyhounds. Mikey thinks perhaps Connor McDavid and his demon will do it, make it all the way, crush the entire CHL like they crushed Dylan's heart. But they lose in Oshawa, to end McDavid's OHL season just short of the Memorial Cup.

Mikey does not ask about the deal that Dylan made. There is never a right time; and it is unkind; and it is not Mikey's business anymore.

Dylan does not offer it, either.

They are bruised up, both of them. Dylan tried to save Connor, and failed. Mikey could have saved Dylan, but he saved Connor instead. Maybe he got fucked up, too. Just like everybody else, in the end.

 

Two weeks after the Generals make Dylan cry on Oshawa ice, Dylan brings Mitch Marner home.

(He has not brought Connor.

Mikey is glad. There are certain things he is strong enough to face, but would rather not.

He thinks if he had to look Connor in the face he would have to say, _I am so sorry_ , and he is still trying to work out how he would say it.)

Ryan and Matt pull Mikey aside, to the shadowy corner beside the garage. Dylan looks over at them, but his hand is on Mitch Marner’s elbow; he doesn't follow them over.

Ryan looks at Mikey, calm and sincere. “We can beat him up if you want.” Ryan’s a little shithead, but he’s Mikey’s little shithead.

Mikey shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says. He’s not really lying. He just - it's okay. It will be okay. “It was always coming.”

He has not told anyone what happened. There is no point speaking it out loud, you know? _My boyfriend cheated on me and now we are broken up_.

Much easier to say, _Dylan dumped me_ , and leave it at that.

Mitch Marner is coming around, now, and Dylan touches him lightly, gently, easily. Someone else can do the math, but Mikey will not. Not where anyone can see it, anyway. This is between him, and Dylan, and maybe Mitch Marner. Maybe the thing in Mitch Marner’s head, but Mikey digresses.

“That’s shitty,” Ryan says. His hair sticks up and he looks determined, like he did when he said he didn’t want to go to Flint and wanted to be on Mikey’s team, because they’d only get to be on the same team for so many more years. “He’s shitty. I’m gonna punch Dylan.”

Mikey ruffles his hair. “You’d probably only improve his face,” he says. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Ryan grumbles under his breath. “Still.”

“I know,” Mikey says. “It sucks.”

“It’s just tacky,” says Matt, calmly and with great care. “That’s not new, but it’s still lame.”

“Guys,” Mikey says. “He’s a _Strome._  He’s still one of ours.”

“Yeah, but we’re allowed to be pissed right now,” Ryan says. “Matty says if you want he’ll put bleach in Dylan’s shampoo.”

“Again,” Mikey says. He’s smiling, though, can’t help it. They’re his brothers even when they fucking suck. “I’m trying to _win_ the breakup, guys. I don’t wanna do anything to make him look less like shit.”

Matt hugs him, very quickly. “I'll trip him. Hard. He’ll have the summer to get over it.”

“Okay,” Mikey says. That seems fair enough. He squeezes his hands against Matt’s sides, just for a moment. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Marner’s got his hands in his pockets. He lifts his head when he talks to Dylan, and smiles.

Mikey’s bones itch. He does not know how Dylan stands it, being so close to this. Everything about Mitch Marner is so, so wrong.

It is not Mikey’s problem, anymore.

“Hey,” Dylan says.

“Hey,” Mikey says. He thinks about the way Dylan looked with blood on his face, weeping. Dylan couldn't save anyone, in the end; Connor had to save him, like always. “You wanna introduce me?”

Dylan blinks. “I-”

“Hi,” Marner says. “Mitchell Marner.”

Mikey swallows and stretches out his hand. “Michael McLeod,” and they shake. Mikey's bones ache from this proximity. This is not what Mikey is for.

It hurt Connor McDavid, the first time he met Dylan Strome. Too much angel, everywhere.

Mikey knows this, because Connor whispered it to Dylan under cover of darkness, late at night in a hotel room past curfew, and then Dylan whispered it to Mikey in the same type of covenant, underneath the blankets on Dylan’s childhood bed.

Perhaps Dylan did love him.

Mikey had thought, then, that it was something he had. That they both had.

They used to understand each other.

 

Here's the thing Mikey should have figured out: Dylan Strome and Mitch Marner both live in service to a higher purpose. For Mitchell it is the demon that claimed him when his father sold him down the river. For Dylan, it is Connor McDavid.

How did Mikey ever have a chance with Dylan? Mikey has always been in full possession of his own soul. He thought Dylan was, too. But Dylan saw that angel when they were young, and then he saw Connor McDavid, and now there is Mitch Marner who he cannot save but who is more salvageable than Connor McDavid, at least.

 _Good luck,_ he thinks.

He does not wish Dylan ill.

At least Connor made his own deal.

 

Mikey goes to lie down on the grass in the yard, just for a minute.

Dylan follows him.

It feels like old times. Like they are young again.

Sometimes Mikey feels like he was never young at all, but that is melodrama.

“I used to put rosemary in your shirts,” Mikey says. “For protection against evil spirits. I don't think it worked very well.”

Dylan rubs his hand over his mouth. “Mikey.”

Mikey is still talking. Why? Lord knows. “You're supposed to put it in pockets, you know. They do it in England, and in, like, Shakespeare. It makes your lover remember his vows.”

Dylan says, “I should have told you.”

Mikey sits up. Crosses his arms over his chest, stares down at his feet. He needs new sneakers. These are peeling apart at the sole. He can see the threads of old glue sticking out, worn and grey. “Probably, yeah.”

“I do love him,” Dylan says. “If that helps. He matters to me.” Mikey wonders if he thinks he means Marner.

Doesn’t matter.

Mikey knows he means McDavid.

“It really doesn't,” Mikey says. He isn't angry but he is tired, so tired his bones ache. He could lie down and sleep for years. “It was always you and me.”

“I’m sorry,” Dylan says. “It just happened.”

“Really?” Mikey says. “You just - slipped and fell, and then there he was?” He doesn’t mean it to sound bitter, but of course you can’t really say something like that without all those layers to it. The archangel said, _you love him,_  and it didn’t lie to him. Not once.

“You don’t want me to say this,” Dylan says. “This isn’t something you wanna hear, Mikes.”

“Don’t,” Mikey says. He lies down again, stretching his whole body down, flat, against the ground. When there is a lightning strike you try to get to ground, so the electricity will move through you and harmlessly dissipate into the earth. His face presses into the grass; he breathes in the wet sweet smell of it. It rained this morning, and so the ozone still lingers. “Don’t tell me what I want and don’t want, Dyl. That’s - just fucking don’t, all right?”

Dylan sighs. “He made sense, okay? Playing with him - I've never played with anyone like he fit on my wing. It was just right.”

“Him, or his demon?” Mikey shouldn’t say this. Mikey shouldn’t say anything. Mikey is poking at an open wound, at a fresh bruise. “Which one did you fall in love with?”

“Mikey,” Dylan says.

Mikey lets his teeth rest over the inside of his cheek. Bites down, very gently, and then: “Was it even about him?”

“He’s funny,” Dylan says, softly. “He’s careful, and he’s kind. He isn’t supposed to be, and it hurts him every time he is, but it’s there.”

“Are you talking about Marner or McDavid?” Mikey asks. “Do you even know?”

“Fuck you,” Dylan says.

Mikey levers himself up onto his elbows and rubs his hand across his mouth. “You couldn’t even break up with me,” he says. “You couldn’t even say the words _._ ”

“I was scared,” Dylan says. He looks young, and soft, and very, very tired. “A lot of shit was happening. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Great,” Mikey snaps. “Because I’m fucking happy now.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Dylan says. “But it's not like you ever needed me, anyway.”

Mikey freezes. He is made of ice, he never has to move again.

Dylan winces. “Mikey-”

“There it is,” Mikey says. He feels hollow. He feels like he should close his eyes, should look away, but he does not. He looks at Dylan, calmly. Does not let his eyelashes flicker. “Should have seen that one coming. I was the one who pulled the knife, because you chickened out, and you're pissed off because I remind you of it?”

“I can _help him_ ,” Dylan says, and now it is quiet and slow in a way Dylan rarely ever is, and so Mikey must believe that it is the truth.

“If you try hard enough you can save him,” Mikey says. There’s grass in his hair, in his ears. He is watching Dylan breathe, little rabbit-breathy sobs coming too fast in a way that if Mikey was a kinder person he might intercede to prevent. Mikey is not feeling kind. “Is that it? If you bring enough juniper, if you put it in a knife’s hilt under a full moon-”

“Clouder,” Dylan says.

“He makes you feel strong,” Mikey says. He can hear the way his voice twists, petty and cruel.“And I remind you you're weak.”

Dylan’s mouth flattens into a firm line. “Fuck you.”

“Did you love me?” Mikey asks. He shakes his head, abrupt; now is the time he looks away. “We never said it.” _I would have said it back, if you had said it first._ If he could make this so it does not sting he would do it. He was hoping he might be stronger than this.

He is not.

Dylan loves Connor McDavid so, so much. Dylan almost died for him. Dylan would have died for him.

In return Connor McDavid almost died for Dylan Strome.

Mikey knows this happened, because he dreamed it. More than dreamed it.

Mikey made that real.

“I love you,” Dylan says, so immediately, and with such fervour that it ought to be true. He reaches for Mikey, and then pulls his hands back. “You're my day one, Mikey McLeod.”

“Didn't mean all that much in the end,” Mikey says, quietly, but he reaches for Dylan's hand anyway, not _I forgive you,_ but _you’ll always be mine_ and they tangle their fingers together and it doesn't feel entirely wrong. “Did the deal work out?”

Dylan blinks at him. “What deal?”

“The one for Connor,” Mikey says. “The one where you gave up on every last thing we used to believe in.”

Dylan says, “I don't -” and shakes his head like it hurts.

Mikey's bones ache.

 _Ruined,_ murmurs the archangel, in its sing-song hymn of a voice. _Ruined forever._

Of course, the demon would not let him remember. They came so close to revolution, and it loves Connor McDavid, in the same way as all of those grasping old men, who wish to touch greatness, to sully it with their fingerprints but still have it remain so, so pure.

“Oh,” Mikey says. His heart aches. “You're my day one, too, Dylan Strome. Always and forever. Even though you fucking suck.”

“Thanks,” Dylan says. “I mean it.”

Mikey squeezes his hand. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

The thing Matt discovered about herbs was: they work. But they are a human magic, and that is less than the things that use human bodies to fight their wars.

You can only get so much out of rosemary, if a demon wants your heart.

 

-

 

Dylan goes third overall to Arizona. Marner goes fourth, to Toronto.

 

Arizona is a weird place, Dylan says. Arizona has Shane Doan, who speaks in Bible verses, and wears the same 19 as Dylan, and tells Dylan that he is special, that he didn’t let a demon touch him and that that makes him perfect.

Mikey says, “He know you’re not a virgin? Cause I have proof of that.” He lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, a smirk.

Dylan squawks. “Gross, Mikey! That's _Shane Doan._ ”

They are okay now. Dylan is still Mikey's friend. Dylan still thinks they are the only two boys in Mississauga without a demon deal.

Dylan doesn’t remember why his arm is all scratched up. He thinks Alex DeBrincat stepped on him once, during a game. Probably that is for the best. Just because you’re in bed with demons doesn’t mean you have to know you are.

Maybe if that wasn't true they wouldn't be friends. But it is, so Mikey has something on Dylan. It goes with the thing that Dylan has on Mikey, which is that Mikey loved him but Dylan always loved someone else more.

The angel gave Mikey and Dylan a gift: it touched them and wrote, in their bones, that they could not be possessed.

Dylan will never belong to Connor McDavid's demon, but now he has sworn to kneel for it. Not all that different, in the end.

 

Mikey has not spoken to Connor McDavid. McDavid is very busy. He has Edmonton to save.

Mitch Marner will go to Toronto, soon. Mikey wonders if that will be something, too. Mitchell's demon does not love Dylan. And now Dylan has been claimed by someone else.

Mikey wonders if Mitch Marner feels what Dylan feels. If it is strange for him to know that love is cut with pity; if he loves Dylan back at all, or if that's something the demon took from him when his dad made his deal.

_Not your business, Clouder._

 

At first, when they were not quite friends again, Mikey pushed to see what would happen. He was testing out the boundaries, trying to figure things out.

There are things Dylan cannot speak about, and if he tries they hurt him. For example: why Connor went to Edmonton, instead of Toronto, instead of anywhere else.

(There are no coincidences in ice hockey. Mikey is pretty sure of that, now.)

When Mikey says, _Connor’s demon,_ Dylan starts to shiver. He bites his lip and looks at the floor.

The first time, Mikey mantled his wings and pinned them tight against his back, as though he could hide. As though he didn't want to be seen.

He’s not used to feeling like that, as a rule.

He wishes Dylan never had to feel it either, but that's not something he can undo, anymore.

Now they are friends again, so Mikey does not push.

He does not ask about the deal. He knows everything he is owed. The blade came back to him.

 

-

 

Mikey dreams about wings. In the dreams his look like those of a falcon, with vast enormous spans; enough to lift him off the ground, enough to take him anywhere, so fucking fast. They are razor sharp, and tailored for speed, and to kill. There are feathers everywhere.

When he dreams it is him and Dylan, because it is he and Dylan who killed the first angel, even if it was Mikey’s hand that dealt the blow. Dylan’s wings are not like Mikey’s; they are broader, and rounder at the tips, and white like snow. Dove’s wings.

Oh, Dylan. Where’s your olive branch? Not here, not now.

Sometimes, when Mikey is awake, now, he can feel the air ruffling through his feathers. He wonders if Dylan feels this too. He supposes not. Not now that a deal has been made.

This is no longer Mikey’s responsibility.

But: Mikey dreams, mostly of wings, and sometimes when the moon is full and Mikey is tired, when the season is rough and Mikey misses Dylan so much his heart might burst, the archangel comes to him.

It has bright eyes, and it shines enough to hurt him. The gleam of it is malevolent; the kind of blessing that gives with one hand and takes with the other.

Now he is older and he sees it for what it is; for the thing that the angel was, too. It was angels, after all, who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. _In the name of the Lord._

 

 _You can have him again,_ the archangel says. Now it looks like wheels, faceless; wheels upon wheels, with eyes cast amongst them, and wings made of infernos. If Mikey had any sense he would be terrified, but he is dreaming, so it is simply logical. _He was always meant to be yours. Michael and Dylan. Stromes and McLeods. Doesn’t it sound right?_

 _There hasn’t been a me-and-Dylan for a long time,_ he tells the archangel. _Just so you know._

 _There always will be,_ says the archangel. _You have her blood on your hands, both of you. You were chosen together._

_The way the demon chose Connor?_

The archangel pauses. The wheels are turning. _You like this idea of choice so much,_ it says. _Of free will._

 _Maybe you don’t like it enough,_ Mikey says.

 _Where do you think your demons come from?_ The archangel asks. _Where do you think_ hate _was born? Not in us, little boy. It’s your people who made sin, and that sin took form, and now it comes upon you. You have sowed, and now you reap._

_So we owe you, is that it? That’s why you need our bodies?_

_The two of you were supposed to be magnificent._ It cannot speak with regret. It doesn’t experience emotions, like that. _That was why she found you, you know. You think you were given this for_ hockey _?_

Mikey bites down on his lip. He can feel his wings rustle at his back. He does not speak.

 _There's a war coming, little boy,_ says the mass of wing and wheel and divine will. _The heavenly host will purge this world, and you are to be our vanguard. Do you understand?_

Mikey remembers: all that fucking screaming. _Yeah,_ he says. _You want to use us just like they do. I get it._

 

Mikey wakes up and goes to the window, and pushes it up so he can stick his head out into the cool night air.

 _He tells himself stories,_ Dylan once said, about Connor, and the thing in his head, the thing eating away at his soul. _He tries to make it something better than it is. So he doesn't feel like he ruined everything._

There is a tree outside. Mikey's hair smells like pine needles, fresh and green.

 _We are all telling stories, Dylan,_ he whispers. _I should have known that from the start._

 

-

 

The next summer is Mikey's draft. It's hot and muggy and Mikey has a bruised elbow from street hockey for the combine, which sucks, but is survivable. Mikey is learning that you can describe most things in this way, except for when you play hockey and you are on the rush and you are scoring. That does not suck.

He has a text in his phone from Dylan: _good luck_ , it says. _Love you, clouder._

 _Love you too,_ Mikey says, instead of _i don't need it._ He can be kind, he thinks. Probably. If he tries. If he doesn’t think about the copper in his mouth when he thinks about Dylan.

He can hold himself together. He has wings, you know.

 

Mikey goes twelfth overall to the New Jersey Devils. Nate goes 41st. Also to Jersey.

New Jersey, and the devils.

The scars on Mikey’s forearms itch. He does not think about it too hard. Instead he hugs Nate very tight, and beams so much his face hurts, and tells everyone: _yes, yes, yes._

 

-

 

Mikey and Nate sit next to each other on the plane. Mikey falls asleep on Nate's shoulder, because Nate is there, broad and warm and wholly himself, and he smells good and Mikey feels safe with him.

Michael comes to him in a dream. It is man-shaped this time, with a glorious halo that spreads thick and luminous around it. _You picked yourself,_ it says. _You selfish, foolish child._ _You could have had the wings we gave you._

 _I have my own,_ Mikey says. _I earned them. In her blood._

 _Your destiny calls you,_ says the archangel. _The garden has been overrun; it has become something dark, and rotten, and spoiled. They nest in it, in droves; they think we will not be so bold as to reclaim it. But it is yours, Michael. It is ours, to act upon and to save. If you won’t allow me in, you must act alone._

 _I won’t,_ Mikey says. _You can’t have me._

The archangel smiles, hollow and flat. _You are our opening salvo. We send you into the mouth of hell, to act in our name. We send you to war, Michael. Our father creates nothing without purpose._

_What if I don’t fight?_

The archangel laughs. To it, Mikey is a stupid, arrogant child; no point in dignifying his insolence. _We would have given you wings. Remember that._

 

Mikey jolts himself awake, trembling, cold all the way through.

Nate is here, sleeping next to him. He's warm all against Mikey's side, and let Mikey fall asleep against his shoulder. He is a good friend. Mikey's best friend.

Mikey wakes him up, even though that is unfair and tomorrow is a big day and Nate needs his rest.

Nate stirs, sleepily, under Mikey's insistent hands. “What?” he asks. But kindly, as he is always kind when it comes to Mikey.

“Hey, please,” Mikey says. His voice shakes, his hands are shaking. He cannot keep himself still. But Nate is used to these times when Mikey is inarticulate, passionate. That is why they work so well on the ice.

He fumbles through his bag, flipping through his water bottle, his wallet, his keys, for the set of Ziplock baggies that he and Matt packed at the beginning of the summer. Never leave home without it.

Nate looks at him, sleepy-eyed, trusting, sure. “Yeah.”

Mikey's heart rises in his chest. He lays out the nesting layers of McLeod and Strome magic on the tray table, and runs his fingers along them, and then over Nate's open skin.

He makes sure that there is rosemary in Nate's hair, and salt on his shoulders. He tucks juniper into Nate’s collar, and puts a little iron chain around his neck, and then he leans up and presses a kiss to Nate’s forehead.

Nate smells like hair gel and Axe. He sits quietly, patiently, through all of it. He is smiling his sweet Nate smile.

“Mikey?” Nate says.

“I'm blessing you,” Mikey says. “Shh.”

Nate closes his eyes and sways into Mikey's trembling, too abrupt fingertips. “Okay.”

Mikey should take his hand away, but he doesn’t. He just leaves it there, curled around the nape of Nate’s neck, with the warmth of Nate’s body bleeding into his skin, and the smell of Nate in his mouth, in his nose. Nate lets him do it, stay there in their too-small seats, pressed up against each other, unmoving, until the seatbelt sign comes on again and the announcement for landing comes softly through the recycled air.

 

They get off the plane at Newark. The air smells different and he can feel his bones itch. It feels like the shape of the runes the angel carved into him. _Blessed be._

He can feel what the archangel promised him. The city shivers with it; he’s never felt anything like it, except maybe in Montreal, though Montreal never wanted him.

This city wants him. Mikey can feel it digging into his chest, like claws. “Demon country,” he says. “That's what drafted us.”

Nate presses his hand to Mikey’s shoulder. The warmth of his touch soothes all the bits of Mikey that should not be Amped Up, anyway. His voice is even. He's good at keeping his voice even with Mikey, when Mikey is getting High Volume and Intense. “Yeah? That why you got so protective on the plane?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says. He makes himself smile, forcing his mouth into the shape of it. It's easier when Nate is around, like most things that are good. “Don't worry. I'll look after you.”

“I'll look after _you,_ ” Nate says. He squeezes Mikey's shoulder once, firm and kind and sweet. Mikey believes him, even though there is absolutely nothing extraordinary about Nathan Bastian, though he is wholly human and not all that good at hockey or all that smart. Nate is brave and loves Mikey. Mikey thinks he would walk with Nate to the end of the world; if he did, Nate would bring him back.

“How about we look after each other?” Mikey doesn't let his smile falter. Bumps his hip against Nate’s. “It's worked okay until now.”

Mikey can handle this. Mikey isn't Dylan. He doesn't need somebody to save.

Say it enough times, Mikey. That'll make it true.

 

 _You killed an angel_ , says the thing in the Prudential Centre. _That makes you ours._

Mikey spreads his wings out behind him. They flutter in the cool air, the rink chill seeping through his feathers. “Thank you for considering me,” he says, quietly.

The rink hums. It knows who he is. It waits.

He reaches into his pocket. Juniper berries, thyme, sage, dandelion root. He's got a lighter, and the whole thing goes up fast in his palm.

“I don't belong to you,” he tells the rink, and tosses it like a warning to the ice.

The sachet flares into bright light, into flame. Like a sacrificial offering. The smell of it bursts in his mouth, his nose. He licks at the insides of his teeth. Breathe in, breathe in.

“I killed an angel, once,” says Mikey McLeod. “Remember that, before you call me anything other than my own.”

**Author's Note:**

> content: infidelity (dylan cheats on mikey w/ mitchell; mikey and dylan break up over it); assisted suicide (administered by a child). 
> 
> further reading:  
> mikey mcleod: [devils](https://www.nhl.com/devils/news/mcleod-fast-from-the-beginning/c-282200778) [features](https://www.nhl.com/devils/news/mcleod-family-follow-up/c-282234430); [mikey pre-ohl draft](http://www.thehockeynews.com/news/article/ohl-cup-future-top-pick-mcleod-best-of-the-best); [dyl talking abt mikey at this year's wjc](http://www.cbc.ca/sports/hockey/nhl/michael-mcleod-step-in-injured-mitchell-stephens-1.3915708).  
> lorne park: [dylan strome + street hockey](http://www.sportsnet.ca/hockey/juniors/cant-take-street-otters-strome/); [the stromes being adorable](http://www.sportsnet.ca/hockey/nhl/strome-boys-taking-over-the-nhl/); [mikey pre-nhl draft](http://torontoobserver.ca/2015/10/13/steelheads-mcleod-brothers-get-advice-from-stromes-about-path-to-nhl/).  
> exceptional status: [sean day](https://www.thestar.com/sports/hockey/2013/11/15/ohler_sean_day_intent_on_earning_his_exceptional_status_feschuk.html); [connor mcdavid](https://www.thestar.com/sports/hockey/2012/03/17/connor_mcdavid_was_born_to_play_hockey.html).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[fanmix] in nomine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622129) by [psuburbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psuburbs/pseuds/psuburbs)




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